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MES. FELICIA HEMANS: 



COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 



S ) 



• . , • 



itli at CtCtital BteCate. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

THOMAS T. ASH, CHESNUT STREET. 



LS36. 



-I ? 5 b 



Entered according to the act of Congress, in the year 1835, by 
Thomas T. Ash, in the clerk's office of the district court of the 
eastern district of Pennsylvania. 



XJ^^V 



STEREOTYPED BY JOHN FAGAN PHILADELPHIA. 



PREFACE 



It has been said by a fine writer, that, 
although genius is the heir of fame, the loss 
of life is the condition on which the bright 
reversion must be earned ; that fame is the 
recompense not of the living, but of the 
dead, — its temple, standing over the grave, 
and the flame of its ahar kindled from the 
ashes of the great. T.'iore is truth in the 
thought, as well as beauty in the expression 
of it, though, like most general remarks of 
the same description, it is open to both quali- 
fication and exception. It is true that fame 
is not popularity merely. It is not the shout 
of the multitude. It is not ' the idle buzz 
of fashion, the venal puff, the soothing flat- 
tery of favour or of friendship.' But is it 
alone, on the other hand, the spirit of a man 
surviving himself, as Hazlitt describes it, in 
the minds and thoughts of other men ? Or, 
as he splendidly represents it again, is it 
only ' the sound which the stream of high 
thoughts, carried down to future ages, makes 
as it flows — deep, distant, murmuring ever- 
more like the waters of the mighty ocean?' 
This is fame, indeed. No reputation can be 
called such, that will not endure that test. 
But may it not begin also in the life of him 
that earns it ? May it not begin, and con- 
tinue, coincident with the mere popularity 
which is so often mistaken for itself, — as the 
immortal soul disdains not the envelope of 
perishing humanity, which it is destined so 
soon to leave, and to outlive so long ? May 
not the spirit of a man transfuse its influence 
into the spirits of other men, without the 
mythological transmigration which, accord- 
ing to this theory, death implies ; — and the 
force of that influence be felt, and recognized, 
and acknowledged, — imperfectly and tardily 
we admit that it generally is, — ere yet the 
'swift decay' of him that so works for the 
world, and for posterity, shall quite release 
him fi'om his toils ? It is truly a ' weary 
fife'— 

" A wasting task, and lone—" 
as that of the diver, in Eastern Seas, for the 
gem that, gleam as it may, 'a star to all the 
festive hall', — 



"—Not one 'midst throngs will say, 
' A life has been, like a rain-drop, shed. 
For tliat pale quivering ray,' "* 

A weary life ! And who will think, the 

mournfiil fancy adds, 

" When the strain is sung. 
Till a thousand hearts are stin'd. 
What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung. 
Have gush'd with every word V 

" None ! none !— his treasures live like thine, 

He strives and dies like thee,— 
Thou that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine, 

O wrestler with tiie sea !' ' 

And this also is doubtless true, — that, 
weary and wasting as it is, — this diving for 
the gems of thought, — the world, that is to 
wear the rich results, does not and cannot 
appreciate, or but slowly and slightly at the 
best, the exhausting effort which it costs. 
That can be understood only by him who 
suffers it, and it is the province of the one 
party even to enjoy ' the price of the bitter 
tears' of tlie other. But it is enjoyed ; and 
that is fame. It is the influence of mind 
upon mind, independently of every personal 
consideration; and that is fame, — however 
much those considerations, or some of them, 
were they known and felt, as they cannot be, 
might add to the interest of that influence, 
and even to its force. 

The best confirmation, melancholy though 
it be, of the truth of these remarks, is fur- 
nished by the case of the gifted, accomplish- 
ed, and amiable writer whose beautiful illus- 
tration of her own career — not to call it a 
prediction of her own destiny — we have 
borrowed, and whose works are now for the 
first time gathered together, in the following 
pages, we trust with something like a com- 
pleteness corresponding to the exertion which 
has been made by the Publisher, as well as 
to the merit and charm of the works them- 
selves. The mere popularity of these 
poems, — their cotemporaneous notoriety, — 
and especially as indicated by the notice of the 
periodical press, — has been perhaps entirely 
unexampled in the history of literature of 
this description. Such at least was the re- 

* Mrs. Hemaiis's Divor. 



PREFACE. 



putation of the larger portion of them, all 
her later productions included ; for it is true, 
as critics have remarked, that not only the 
debut whicli she made in a juvenile volume, 
at Livei-pool, while yet in her childhood, (a 
collection of little effusions written between 
the ages of eight and thirteen, to which she, 
who had the right of decision, did not her- 
self subsequently choose to give a place 
among her mature 'works',) but even tlie 
much more elaborate compositions of many 
succeeding years, including the Restoration 
of the Works of Art to Italy, (published in 
1817,) and other poems studded as richly 
wit)] brilliant passages, did not have the ef- 
fect to establish her reputation. In fact, the 
Records of Woman, which appeared only 
some eight years since, may be considered 
as having fairly laid its foundations. From 
that time, however, as we have said, the fa- 
vour her poems met with was unexampled. 
But who will pretend that it was no more 
than ' favour ;' that it was but a transient air 
of popular whim which sustained them, but 
gave no test nor pledge of an inherent and 
enduring buoyancy ? Who will deny that 
Mrs. Hemans has enjoyed — or, if we use 
the term which is applicable to the personal 
effort and effect, that she has suffered, — in 
her own life-time, a true fame, — even the 
truest, dearest, best, of all its species, — though 
only as the dim beginning of the brightness 
which awaits her name ? Even the extra- 
ordinary newspaper popularity (so to speak) 
of her later writings, is itself an indication, 
on the whole, of the fact. It shows the feel- 
ing of the people, which dictates the fashion 
of the press ; and although there are many 
of the works of genius which may largely 
attract the attention and admiration of the 
world, for a time, and for various and obvious 
reasons, without leaving their mark on the 
minds or hearts of men, others there are, 
possessed of a vital spirit, that, once ap- 
preciated, they will not ' willingly let die.' 
The notoriety of such an author, as an 
author, is equivalent to his fame. It is as 
true of virtue, especially, as of vice, that it 
' needs but to he seen ;' and although tliat 
conventional corporation which has the 
name of' tlie public,' merely, are not seldom 
deceived by false pretences, and dazzled by 
brilliant shows, the world at large is wiser 
than tlie public, (as much as it is wiser than 
any individual,) and will see. It will feel, 
too ; and acknowledge what it feels. It will 



acknowledge it, not in the columns of the 
newspapers, to be sure, alone — though these 
certainly have their part to play — but as 
Scott's was acknowledged, when a traveller 
states that he found, in the remotest regions 
of Hungary, a volume of one of his delight- 
ful romances in a peasant's cabin ; as Thom- 
son's was, when a shabby, soiled copy of ' The 
Seasons' was noticed, by a man of genius, 
lying on the table of an obscure ale-house, 
in England. ' That,' said he, ' is true 
fame !' And it was, and is so. Such is the 
fame of the Vicar of Wakefield, and John 
Gilpin, and the Pilgrim, and poor Robinson 
Crusoe, and the Cotter's Saturday Night. 
It is seen not in the diamond editions that 
glitter on the centre-tables of genteel society, 
or crowd, with everything else, the biblio- 
pole's multifarious collections of rarities; but 
the ragged volumes of every circulating li- 
brary, grown old and illegible before their 
time by dint of reading — and the thumb- 
ed copies that lie on the window-ledge of 
the poor man's cottage, witli the leaves turn- 
ed down by the good woman to ' keep the 
place' — and the song, or the ode, which the 
milk-maid trolls on the hill-side, or a band 
of freemen (like the descendants of the Ply- 
mouth Pilgrims) adopt for the festal com- 
memoration of their fathers' glory, — these 
are the quick pulses that prove the existence 
of an author in his fame. Sucli has been 
already the success of Mrs. Hemans. She 
addressed herself not to passion, or fashion, 
or the public, or any class of the community 
or country she lived in, but to human beings, 
as such, — to their hearts, as well as their 
heads — with truth's transparent and glowing 
passport in her hand ; — and it was an inti'o- 
duction tJiat never yet failed to be effectual, 
nor ever will. Fashion will pass away, and 
passion subside in satietj"- ; and the frivolous 
industry that ministered to the gratification 
of the one, and the false excitement that led 
the other to its own destruction, will be de- 
spised first, and tlien forgotten ; but man re- 
mains the same, from first to last ; and truth, 
which also remains, is mighty, and, worthily 
interpreted, must prevail. How long it may 
be in making its way, depends upon the cir- 
cumstances of each particular case. It may 
address the head, or the heart, or both. It 
may be more or less a matter of necessity, 
or of luxury alone. It may be left to the 
recommendation only of its own modest 
merit, or be drawn into notice by fortunate 



PREFACE. 



crises, or casual accompaniments, well adapt- 
ed to excite a seasonable sympathy as it were 
at the mere sight of its features, or the sound 
of its name, while its absolute character is 
yet unknown. Meanwhile 

" The soul whence these high gifts are shed, 
May faint in sohtude," 

exhausted by these same efforts, or borne 
down by circumstances which have little or 
no connexion with them ; or it may thrive 
as the young- tree that leans over running- 
waters, and grow stronger as it gives more 
fruit, till it lives to feci, in the airs that reach 
it from many a far-off shore, the joy of its 
own blossomy breath returned to it, and to 
hear the blessing of the poor pilgrim wlio 
has paused in the dust of the way-side of a 
weary life, and the school-girl's glee, and 
the child's murmur of sweet delight, as they 
turn down from the heat of the day, to be 
refreshed and rejoice together in the gloom 
of its green repose. 

So, we say, has it been already, and so, 
we venture to predict, it will be still, with 
much of the poetry of Mrs. Hemans. She 
strove to be the worthy interpreter of worthy 
truth, deeply concerning the happiness of her 
race ; and the vital spirit of virtue has in- 
spired her to be equal to the task. This is 
her praise ; and it is praise enough ; not 
that she has spent her strength in the rearing 
of dazzling fabrics of fancy, as brilliant and 
as useless as the ice-palaces of the northern 
Queen ; not that she has chosen to indulge 
the impulse of a wayward temperament in 
the reckless expression of feeling without 
principle, and of sentiment without point ; 
not that she has dealt only in the cold oracles 
of a selfish philosophy, more thoughtful of 
truth, and of proof, than of the use of either 
in the wants of the world ; not that she has 
indulged unholy passion in her own breast, 
or the breast of any living creature ; not 
that she has dared to exaggerate,, that at all 
events she might astonish, or deigned to be 
mean, in the miserable hope of amusing. 
No ! She has neither failed to feel the high 
dignity of her profession, nor forgotten to 
observe it. She has made no vain display 
of genius faithless to its trust. She has cul- 
tivated self as the means, not consulted it as 
the end. She has been ambitious less to 
gain honour, than to give pleasure, and do 
good. She has not assumed to assert what 
is doubtful, or to deny what is not. She has 
not dogmatized, criticized, or theorized. 
2 



She has not speculated. She has not trifled. 
She has not flattered, nor inflamed. But she 
did strive to ennoble virtue ; to encourage ex- 
ertion ; to sustain hope ; to increase the happi- 
ness of men, by increasing their capacity to be 
happy, and developing their taste for what is 
deserving of pvn-suit. She strove, in a word, as 
we began with saying, to be the worthy inter- 
preter of worthy truth. And she was so. 

Tliis, we say, is her praise ; and it is the 
greater for its rarity. There has been too 
much among us of extravagant excitement, — ■ 
even from the master-minds of the times^ — 
as if there were no way of avoiding the cold 
gorgeousness of the mere phantasmagoria 
of fancy, or the idle insipidity of a soulless 
sentimentalism, or any other of the deficient 
styles of the day, but by rushing headlong 
to the opposite extreme. Mrs. Hemans has 
taken the reasonable medium, which her na- 
tive sense and sensibility alike approved. 
She has shown us that nature alone is strange 
enough, and strong enough, for all the pur- 
poses of interest and instruction which po- 
etry demands : and that its true office is not 
to distort, but to describe ; not to magnify 
but to simplify ; to do justice, strictly, to di- 
vinity, and to humanity, and to the universe 
around us, not by assuming to paint them 
as they should be, but by faithfully labouring 
to interpret them as they are. 

No Delphic frenzy could aid in the dis- 
charge of such a service ; it would have 
made it, as in so many other cases, {not 
heathen,) it has done, a worse than worth- 
less labour. She Vv^anted the powers of per- 
ception, and reflection, to appreciate the 
world without, and the world within; and 
these she had, and did ; but not as if to 
know, and to think, only, were the life of 
the soul. She wanted sensibility, — the more 
exquisite the better, — and the more cultivated 
with all the faculties in due proportion, the 
better, — ' for what is it to live, if it be not 
to love ?' * She wanted to be ready to feel, 
as only the good can do, ' at the sight of 
whatever is excellent, an emotion like that 
which the sweet remembrance of infancy 
causes ;' — an instinct to recognize the face 
of the beautiful, wherever it may be, and to 
rush, as it were, into its arms, as the Syrian 
pilgrim,t from all his wanderings returned 
to his mother's home again, into hers. She 
wanted enthusiasm even, in the exercise of 



' Degevando. 



t The Crusader's Return 



VI 



PREFACE. 



these capacities, — enthusiasm to make the 
exercise a delight, and to inspire her to com- 
municate to other bosoms the rejoicing of 
her own. But with all these, which she had, 
she needed no morbid disorder. She had 
none. She knew that "we preserve this 
precious faculty of the heart" — even this — 
'only in proportion as we cultivate truth, 
and guard against the exaggerated, affected, 
or factitious.' She kept herself calm even 
for the purpose of feeling— of feeling right- 
ly — as much as of seeing clearly, — knowing 
also it is a fruitless torture we choose to suf- 
fer, ' to force ourselves to be false to ourselves, 
and to everything, that we may learn how 
to be true ;' that the mind may faitlifully 
mirror, only in a state of composure, the im- 
pressions which meet it ; that the knowledge, 
the knowledge of all nature, and especially 
of his own, which the poet pursues, flees 
from the rushing footstep of passion, even as 
the haste of the hunter startles his game. 
*And why, after all,' — the philosopher we 
have cited so often, inquires, — ' why should 
we be disturbed ? What should we gain by 
so much toil ? Why do we not allow our- 
selves time to breathe ? The good we fol- 
low' — and this is as true in poetry, as in 
philosophy — ' is nearer to the soul than we 
think ; it would come to us, if we only con- 
sented to he calm.'' 

This calmness it is, which eminently cha- 
racterizes the poetry of Mrs. Hemans, and 
which most distinguishes it from the revo- 
lutionary poetry of the revolutionary age we 
live in. It is a self-possession which never 
forsakes her in the heat of her highest enthu- 
siasm of joy or sorrow. There is a divine 
dignity, unsurpassed even by the grandeur 
of Milton, in the rapture of an admiration 
that seems almost to lift her in her song, as 
upon angels' pinions, — 

" To the breath 
Of Dorian fJute, or lyre note soft and slow:"* 

and again, in the darkest mood of the ' ten- 
der gloom' which beautifully tinges the 
whole surface of her works, (like the dim 
religious light of an ancient forest, or of one 
of her own lonely fanes — 

"A mighty minster, dim, and proud, and vast,)" 

there is yet a more than wakeful, — a cheerful, 
— an inextinguishably cheerful spirit, — an 
immortal hope, — 'a calmness of the just,' — 
as manifest and as majestic in herself as in 



' League of the Alps. 



her own "Alvar's glorious mien,"t — and 

making its voice heard in the midst of its 

sorrow, like the martyr's 

" Sweet and solemn-breathing strain. 
Piercing the flames, untremulous and clear." 

We have called it the vital spirit of virtue 

which sustains her. Let us say, in her own 

language, again, — 

" It is a fearful, yet a glorious thing. 
To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and know 
That its glad stream of melody could spring 
Up from the unsounded huIIs of human woe ! 
Alvar! Theresa !— Wh.it is deep 1 what strong 1 
God's breath within the soul! " 

For such an exhaustless reservoir of re- 
sources, after all, is the secret of her inspi- 
ration. And this, too, is the inspiration of 
truth, deep-seated, but calm, as a lake of the 
hills, in the sun-bright silence of the breast. 

This, then, we regard as the principle of 
the poetry of Mrs. Hemans, — its truth. It im- 
plies much, in detail. It implies perception, 
imagination, sensibility, self-control, and 
control over language ; and truth, and taste, 
in all ; for there is need to know, feel, reason, 
conceive, and describe, and all in their due 
proportion and season ; in other words, as 
truth requires, — since to feel too much (for 
example) is of course as false to Nature as 
to feel too little, or not at all ; and as regards 
the party to whom poetry is addressed, to 
be unable to command the means of convey- 
ing what is felt, by suitable language, is the 
same, so far as the deficiency exists, as if 
there were nothing to be conveyed, and no 
effort made to do it. 

This characteristic implies, then, that 
what is attempted, is done. It does not im- 
ply, necessarily, the highest order of genius, 
in the popular sense of the term, or, — not to 
settle the precedence of the diversities of 
genius, — it does not imply every kind of it. 
In the Evening Prayer at a Girls' School, 
Mrs. Hemans may have exquisitely succeed- 
ed in doing justice to the truth of a beauti- 
ful subject (as we think she has) without 
evincing (as we think she has not) the uni- 
versal power of Shakspeare to identify him- 
self, intuitively, as it has been described, 
with every character which he wished to re- 
present, "and to pass from one to another 
like the same soul successively animating 
different bodies." This may be necessary 
to a perfect dramatic talent, but not to every 
species of composition ; the writer himself, 
whose splendid sketch we refer to, admits 

t Forest Sanctuary. 



PREFACE. 



vil 



that even the universality of his genius 
Vf&s ' perhaps a disadvantage to his single 
works,' the variety of his resources some- 
times diverting him from applying them to 
the most effectual purpose. 

Mrs. Hemans did not attempt everything, 
though her range certainly was wide enough 
to content the mere ambition of most authors. 
Nor did she equally succeed in everything 
she did undertake, especially in the earlier 
part of her career, while it remained yet to 
be decided by trial, to her own satisfaction, 
what she was best qualified to do. It is one 
of the traits she most deserves to be praised 
for, that she has not attempted some things, 
as much as that she succeeded so eminently 
in others. It were far better for the world, 
as well as for those who write for it, if they 
would exercise a good deal more of the mind 
they do possess, in the shape of a sound 
judgment and a nice tact, to determine what 
they cannot accomplish, and what they 
should not attempt. There would be far more 
work done, — and far worthier of being done, 
— and better done ; — and far fewer of those 
abortive abuses which consist in the jug- 
gling torture, and end often in the sacrifice, 
of real poetical power, with only the reward 
of the open-mouthed gaze of the mob, — up- 
turned for a moment, — who are silly enough 
to surround the stage which it plays its 
pranks on. There is no necessity of parti- 
cularizing those portions of the works of our 
authoress, in which she has succeeded best, 
or least, upon this principle of following her 
bent. Suffice it to say that she made it a 
study — at the expense of experience, of 
course — a serious and conscientious study ; 
and that she finally devoted herself, for the 
most part, with a sagacity and a self-denial 
equally worthy of all admiration, to the de- 
partment she found herself to be fitted for. 
Thus, too, did she follow out the principle 
of her genius, its truth. She was true to 
herself, as well as to nature ; true to her own 
nature, we sliould rather say ; and because 
she was so, in no small degree it is, that she 
achieved, in those departments, a success 
unrivalled in the history of the literature to 
which we allude. 

It might be expected that poetry to which 
these remarks were applicable, should be 
strongly distinguished by its simplicity ; and 
it is so. Truth is always simple, as every 
species of affectation necessarily is other- 
wise, and stands directly in its light. These 



compositions are as simple as they are calm 
and serene. They will please therefore, at 
least, when they do not surprise ; nay, in 
the midst of all the whirl and turmoil of the 
machinery of the poetry-factory of these 
days, they will surprise, even, by their serene 
simplicity. They did so, especially at their 
first appearance ; and it is only because Mrs. 
Hemans herself has accustomed the public 
to this rarest of the novelties, that the im- 
pression of its charm may have been in any 
degree even transiently disparaged, as by 
the charge, for example, of monotony. An 
accomplished writer, to whom we are proba- 
bly more indebted in this country, than to any 
other individual, next to the authoress her- 
self, for the early acquaintance we have made 
with her poems, has well illustrated her mer- 
it in this respect, as compared with the noisy 
and difficult jargon of many who have gone 
before her, by reference to the anecdote of 
Napoleon's coronation, as emperor, in the 
cathedral of Notre Dame. The fondness 
of the French for parade and effect, is well 
known, and this was the most brilliant era 
of the great man's career. The Parisians, 
to astonish everybody, filled the orchestra 
with eighty harps, which were struck toge- 
ther with unequalled skill. 'The whole 
world' was delighted. But presently enter- 
ed the Pope. A few of his singers, who 
came with him from Rome, received him 
with the Tu es Petrus of Scarlatti. Not an 
instrument was heard ; there were no fash- 
ionable flourishes ; but the simple majesty 
of the old-fashioned air, 'annihilated at 
once the whole effect of the preceding fan- 
faronade.'* We have had a liberal allow- 
ance of instrumental in the poetry of our 
times ; and the Voice of Spring is worth 
the whole of it. What a strength is in its 
simplicity ! What power from lips that 
seem to tremble, as 

" They strive to speak. 
Like a frail harp-string, shaken by the storm !" 

So spake the Switzer's Wife, when the Spells 
of Home inspired her : — 

"Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light. 
And took her fair child to her holy breast, 

And lifted her soft voice, thatgather'd might 
As it found language ;— " Are we thus oppress'd'! 

Then must we vise upon our mountain sod, 

And man must arm, and woman call on God !" 



* North American Uevievv, for April, 1827. We need 
scarcely say, thai allusion is made above to the eduor 
of the Boston edition of the Earlier Poems of Mrs. He- 



viu 



PREFACE. 



"I know what thou wouldst do,— and be it done ! 

Thy soul is darken'd with its fears for me. 
Trust me to Heaven, my husband ! This, thy son. 

The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free ! 
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth 
May well give strength— if aught be strong on earth. 

"Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread 
Of my desponding tears; now lift once more, 

My hunter of the hills, thy stately head, 
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore ! 

I can bear all, but seeing tliee subdued,— 

Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood. 

" Go forth beside the waters, and along 
The chamois-paths, and through the forests go; 

And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong 
To the brave hearts that 'midst the hamlets glow. 

God shall be with thee, my beloved '.—Away ! 

Bless but thy child, and leave me,— 1 can pray !" 

He sprang up like a warrior-youth awaking 

To clarion-sounds upon the ringing air: 
He caught her to his breast, while proud tears, breaking 

From his dark eyes, lell o'er her braided hair,— 
And " Worthy art thou," was his joyous cry, 
"That man for thee should gird himself to die." 

Here, it must be confessed, after all, is the 
forte of Mrs. Hemans, — the fireside; and 
we come now to say, in a word, that we 
consider her not only, as the Edinburgh Re- 
view pronounced her some six years since, 
' The most touching and accomplished writer 
of occasional verses that our literature has 
yet to boast of — splendid as that compli- 
ment is, — but as the model, in every respect, 
of what a female writer of poetry should be. 
Her poetry, itself, is the model of female 
poetry, so to speak. It has not simply a 
negative merit, of course, though that in 
our times is something to be distinguished 
by, if not to boast of; the merit of being 
free from the characteristic faults or foibles 
of men or women ; of being perfectly amia- 
ble as well as decorous, and meek and mod- 
est in all the fervour of its earnestness. 
This fervour itself, pure as it is, is an ex- 
quisite quality which belongs, in its true 
fineness, only to a woman's heart. Mrs. 
Hemans had a generous share of it in her 
temperament ; and she has poured and pour- 
ed it out, strong and fresh as the rushing 
waters of her own 'streams and founts' of 
the Spring, when they burst 

" From their sparry caves. 
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves." 

What devotedness, — what fearless, uncal- 
culating, uncompromising confidence, — the 
confidctice of the heart, — of a woman's heart 
— breathe, as with a living ardour of the 
warm lips themselves, in the agony of Inez at 
the Auto da Fe, when the ' breathless rider' 
found her by the gleam of the midnight fire, 



"And dash'd off fiercely those who came to part. 
And rush'd to that pale girl, and clasp'd her to his heart ! 

****** 
And for a moment all around gave way 
To that full burst of passion !— on his breast. 
Like a bird panting yet from fear, she lay. 
But blest— in misery's very lap— yet blest!— 
Oh love, love, strong as death !— from such an hour 
Pressing out joy by thine immortal power. 
Holy and fervont love ! had earth but rest 
For thee and thine, this world were all too fair ! 
How could we thence be wean'd to die without despair 1 

But she— as falls a willow from the storm. 
O'er its own river streaming— thus reclined 
On the youth's bosom hung her tVagile form 
And clasping arms, so passionately twined 
Around his neck— with such a trusting fold, 
A full deep sense of safety in their hold, 
As if naught earthly might th' embrace unbind ! 
Alas! a child's fond faith, believing still 
Its mother's breast beyond the lightning's reach to kill!" 

What a picture is this ! How do we feel 
that only one who has herself a heart, and 
such a heart, can render such justice to 

"The strife 
OF love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of life, 
Within her woman's hrcastV 

How do we seem to hear, as her hero ' woos 
her back to life,' in his frenzy, her '■soft 
voice in his soul /' How do we see, again, 

"Her large tears gush 
Like blood-drops from a victim ; with swift rain 
Bathing the bosom where she leaned that hour. 
As if her life wouldmelt in that o'erswelling shower.'''' 

Not an ' inalienable trust' is this, alone ; 
but what an exquisite tenderness is mingled 
with it ; and how does that trait pervade 
this poetry everywhere, till it must melt the 
manhood even of the ' stoics of the wood,' 
the savages in sentiment, who would have 
been themselves ashamed — forsooth ! — to 
' stain' their Indian page ' with grief.' Yet 
have they wept with the Bride of the Greek 
Isle, when leaving the vine at her father's 
door, and the myrtle once called her own, 

" She turn'd— and her mother's gaze brought back 
Each hue of her childhood's faded track. 
Oh ! hush the song, and let her tears 
Flow to the dream of her early years ! 
Holy and pure are the drops that fall 
When the young bride goes from her fathers' hall; 
She goes unto love yet untried and new. 
She parts from love which hath still been true ; 
Mute be the song and the choral strain. 
Till her heart's deep well-spring is clear again! 
She wept on her mother's faithful breast, 
Like a babe that sobs itself to rest ; 
She wept— j/cj laid her hand the while 
In his that waited her daioning smile. 
Her soul's affianced, nor cherish'd less 
For the gush of nature's tenderness !" 

These, we say, are the fervour, and the 
trust, and the tenderness, of a woman's po- 
etry. Shakspeare himself, perfect as even 
his female characters are, — as far as they are 
not female, but only human, — did not write 



PREFACE. 



IX 



thus, and could not, for though he was like 
all other men, excepting; that he resembled 
nobody, as Hazlitt describes him, he was 
not like woman, and he could enter into the 
feeling of her character, — the female feeling-, 
— in some respects perhaps but little better 
than Milton himself. It is no reproach to 
him that he could not, any more than it is 
to Mrs. Hemans that she could not write like 
him. It may, however, occasion a dramatic 
deficiency, — more or less perceptible to the 
reader, as he or she is possessed more or less 
of the quality itself in question, — wherever 
the play moves over ground which does not 
belong to this genius of man: and hence 
Shakspeare appears best upon his own ground, 
and so far forth as he represents the influ- 
ence, rather than the absolute existence, of 
the other sex. And the same is true of her, 
and of her heroes. If it be true to a greater 
extent, on one hand, she has gained and 
saved something, on the other, by the exer- 
cise, in this instance, again, of that excellent 
tact — itself almost a characteristic of the sex, 
— which she has generally employed to so 
good purpose in the choice of subjects as 
well as of style, and not less in forbearance 
than in effort. She has avoided, almost en- 
tirely, mere masculine materiel, and has gra- 
dually abandoned even those topics of gene- 
ral interest, which do not actually require 
the exertion of her more peculiar power. If 
she leaves the fireside occasionally, she does 
not travel in male disguise, — still less does 
she cease to be what she is. Her household 
gods go with her wherever she goes, — and 
the sound of their parting footsteps is audi- 
ble with her own. With the wreck and the 
treasures of the deep, 'mid gold and gems, 
and buried isles, and towers o'erthrown, we 
find 

" The lost and lovely ! — those for whom 
The place was kept at board and hearth so long I" 

She brings her 'flowers' for crowns to the 
early dead, and for 

"Elides to wear,— 
They were born to blush in their shining hair !" 

She sends the Crusader to Syrian deserts, 
that he may find his way back again to 
' some fond mother's glance,' that ' o'er him, 
too, brooded in his early years.' She makes 
the conqueror in his sleep, ' a child again.' 
The Traveller, at the source of the Nile, 



thinks of the wild sweet voices of the stre.ams, 

in 

" Haunts of play, 
Where brightly through the beechen shade. 
Their waters glanced away." 

Her trumpet sounds for the lover to quit his 

marriage altar, and 

"The mother on her first-born son, 
Looks with a boding eye ;" 

and it is still ' woman on the field of battle ' 
itself. She felt that here was her empire. 
She knew that it was the spells of home 
which inspired her, and she clung even to 
the forsaken hearth, and to the graves them- 
selves, of the household. The element of her 
poetry was the warm air of the fireside. 
The faith, the trust, the fear, the love, even 
the anguish, of a woman's heart, sustained 
her, — and she revived with the ' taste of 
tears,'* — and again, and again, while yet she 
weeps, like the Bride of the Isle, till her voice 
seems lost with the choking swell, sweeter 
and clearer than ever do 

" Her lovely thoughts from their cells find way, 

In the sudden flow of the plaintive lay." 

We say, then, the distinctive character of 
her poetry is female — and in its being in 
that department just what it should be. It 
is all the records of woman ; all, the songs 
of the affections. It is the poetry of the 
household, the poetry of the heart. 

Nor let us, in this connexion, lose sight 
altogether of the aid she derived from her 
personal experience, her experience as a wife 
and a mother, and still more, the lessons 
which circumstances, more individual, must 
have taught her. We will not go largely 
into these, but it is essential to a right appre- 
ciation of her poetical character, that as much 
of her history as a popular foreign writer 
has lately communicated, sliould be known.f 
' They learn in suffering what they teach in 
song,' was Shelley's maxim; and Mrs. He- 
mans did more than to adopt it as a theme.t 
She lived it her life long ; and, like her Va- 

* Forest Sanctuary. 

t "Felicia Dorothea Browne was born in Liverpool, 
in a small quaint-looking house in St. Anne street, now 
standing, old fashioned and desolate, in the midst of the 
newer buildings by which it is surrounded. Our ab- 
staming from any attempt minutely to trace her history, 
requires no apology; it is enough to say, that when she 
was very young, her fnmily removed from Liverpool to 
the neighbourhood of St. Asaph, in Nnrih Wales ; that 
she married at a very early age — thnt her married life, 
after the birth offivesons. was clouded by the estrange- 
ment other husband — that, on the death of lier mother, 
with whom she had resideij, she broke up her establish- 
ment in Wales, and removed to Wavertree, in the 
neighbourhood of Liverpool — from whence, after a resi- 
dence of about three years, she again removed to Dub- 
Un— her last resting place." Athmmua. 

t See The Diver. 



PREFACE. 



lencian heroine, she took her toils nobly on 

her, knowing how 

" Strength is born 
In the deep silence of long-suffering hearts, 
Not amidst joy ;" 

though mourning, with the Sicilian, as she 

did, 

"That there should be 
Things, which we love with such deep tenderness, 
But, through that love, to learn how much of woe 
Dwells in one hour like this." 

Yet loved she on, and learned on, till her 
poetry has been imbued with such a spirit 
of the heart, as could seem only, like the dy- 
ing breath of the trampled violet, to have 
been crushed out of it in the act of its ex- 
tinction. There was no need of affectation. 
She had in herself, again, the truth. She 
looked in her heart, and wrote.* 

Much might be said of the perfect purity 
and dignity of the poetry of Mrs. Hemans; 
but these are inferable from the sketch we 
have given already, as general as it is. She 
has not been surpassed in these attributes by 
any writer of the severest school. It was 
the result with her, of an ambition of the 
highest order — a deep religious principle — no 
more than Milton's ' to be raised from the 
heat of youth or the vapours of wine ;' ' nor 
to be obtained by the invocation of Dame 
Memory and her siren daughters ; but by 
devout prayer to that eternal Spirit who can 
enrich with all utterance and knowledge, 
and sends out his seraphim with the hallow- 
ed fire of his altar, to touch and purify the 
lips of whom he pleases.' To such a mind 
there was a beauty in every thing which 
God has created ; and although it was no 
error of hers, as it has been of so many be- 
fore her, to search out the materials of poetry 
with such microscopic eyes as to degrade its 
noble office — describing the interior of a cot- 
tage, (as a witty critic remarked of Crabbe,) 
like a person sent there to distrain for the 
lease, and recording a rent in a counterpane 
as an event in history — none could be more 
alive than she was to the respectabilitj^, so 
to speak, of all that reason discovers and re- 
ligion reveals, of the spiritual meanings of 
the universe around us, in the least as well 
as the grandest of its parts. She has told us 
where we may trace these meanings in our 
daily paths. She had traced them herself 
She had looked upon nature with eyes of 
love, that clothed it, in all its shapes, with the 



' Sir Philip Sydney. 



mind's mystery, like the ' faith, touching all 
things with hues of heaven.' No author has 
luxuriated in the beauties of the physical 
world with a keener relish than she has ; and 
none has come nearer to raising them as it 
were into life itself, by the connexion with 
the lessons of life which she gives them. 
There is no little genius to be exercised in 
preserving the delicate relation between the 
dignity of humanity, of mind, time, eternity, 
virtue, truth, of God himself, — the highest 
themes of song, in a word, — on one hand, 
and that of the subordinate subject-matter, 
equally to be regarded in its way, on the 
other. This relation she has seen and re- 
spected. All her imagery, borrowed from 
nature, rich as it is, is made, like oriental 
flowers, to mean something, and to utter it 
in a language of its own. It is a sort of 
trellice-work, for thought and affection to 
climb upon. The Palm Tree, for example, 
is laden, as it were, with a moral, as with 
clusters of golden grapes. 

In respect to the religious dignity which 
she attached to her profession, the late wri- 
ter in the Athenaeum, referred to above, 
quotes from a letter which lay before him : — 
' I have now,' she says, ' passed through the 
feverish and somewhat visionary state of 
mind often connected with the passionate 
study of art in early life ; deep affections and 
deep sorrows seem to have solemnized my 
whole being, and I now feel as if bound to 
higher and holier tasks, which, though I may 
occasionally lay aside, I could not long wan- 
der from vi'ithout some sense of dereliction. 
I hope it is no self-delusion, but I cannot 
help sometimes feeling as if it were my true 
task to enlarge the sphere of sacred poetry, 
and extend its influence. When you re- 
ceive my volume of ' Scenes and Hymns,' 
you will see what I mean by enlarging its 
sphere, though my plan as yet is very im- 
perfectly developed.' How much she ac- 
complished in this noblest sphere of her la- 
bours, will be seen in the following pages. 
How much remained to be done, which she 
might have accomplished, is a reflection that 
must add a new poignancy to the sorrow her 
death has occasioned. 

She speaks here of the passionate study of 
art in early life. And this is not the least 
of her merits, — tliat she did study, early and 
late, her whole life long, making poetry, as 
it deserves, no less a subject of science than 
a gift of genius. She was above the misera- 



PREFACE. 



XI 



ble disparagement of labour, and learning, 
and practice, and the advice of the world. 
She profited continually by them all; and 
the critics have in no respect rendered her 
fuller justice, than in noticing the astonish- 
ing progress indicated by her successive pro- 
ductions. There are embryo traces, indeed, 
of her peculiar mind, and particularly of her 
fervid temperament and rich imagination, 
even in the juvenile volume alluded to above 
— and passages of the Sceptic are scarcely 
surpassed in strength by anything which 
has followed them — but, in general, the con- 
tinuity of character, so to speak, from first 
to last, is little more than sufficient to show, 
at the same time with the identity of tlie 
intellect, the wonder-working effect of what 
Milton calls ' industrious and select reading, 
steady observation, insight into all seemly 
and generous arts and affairs.' A glance at 
her notes, mottoes, and translations alone, 
will convey the notion of a learning in the 
languages v^^hich would seem to be result 
enough, in itself, for the toil of a life like 
hers. Hence much of her glowing facility 
and felicity of language. Much of it, indeed, 
— the unrivalled elegance, (for there is no- 
thing in English literature which exceeds 
her in this regard,) the exquisite grace, the 
indescribable tact of phraseology, — these 
were original with her, and were especially 
among the female traits of her genius. Even 
these, however, were improved with the 
rest, till by dint of discipline, added to na- 
tive ability, she came at length to be mis- 
tress of an inimitable finishing-power, — a 
power of doinf precise justice to the niceties 
of conception with which perhaps the mind 
of a woman only is conversant, — a minia- 
ture minuteness, — such as nothing short of 
the power itself would enable us properly to 
describe. The enthusiasm of Mrs. Hemans 
made even her industry indefatigable. Those 
who affect her more attractive qualities, will 
do well to imitate this. It requires no small 
share, in the outset, to study her works at- 
tentively enough — especially as they are 
read cursorily with such eager interest — to 
appreciate the credit she deserves in this re- 
spect. It was the most difficult result of her 
labour that she succeeded in concealing the 
effort, while she proved the effect. 

Thus, then, is her poetry distinguished. 
Others have possessed her imagination, her 
taste, her ambition, her art, her glowing 
feeling, her christian principle ; but they did 



not all undertake, and they were not all com- 
petent if they had, to devote the exercise of 
every energy, effectually, to the one object 
of her labours, — the composition of a model 
which might perfectly represent what fe- 
male poetry is and should be. This Mrs. 
Hemans has done. She had a genius wor- 
thy to be the representative of that of her 
sex, — and she sounded the depths of its capa- 
cities of exertion and suffering, and trained 
them, with every faculty, to do justice to 
herself, her sex, her race, her Creator, in the 
discharge of the true office of the profession 
she chose, — the illuminating or figuring forth 
of truth, (as Sydney describes it,) and espe- 
cially of the truth most worthy of the work, 
— which it most concerns men, as such, to 
feel the force of, — and which, also, she was 
herself best qualified so to set forth — ' hy the 
speaking picture of poetry.'' She wrote not 
only as none but a woman could write, but 
so wrote as that, in her department, neither 
her predecessors, or successors, of her own 
sex, have been, or will be, able to surpass her. 
In introducing her works entire, for the 
first time, it may be proper to allude to the 
interest she has been frequently known to 
express in our peculiar institutions and pros- 
pects, and the gratification she derived from 
the evidence, to which she could not be Wind, 
that her productions were nowhere more 
cordially welcomed, or more fully appreci- 
ated, than here. For the numerous compo- 
sitions founded on American themes, such a 
reception was rather to be anticipated, as a 
mark of the pleasure we felt in the worthy 
illustration of our national topics, and espe- 
cially by tlie talent of one who by no means 
deemed it necessary to be faithless to her 
own country, or to any thing else her own, 
that she might do justice to the world at 
large beside. But this was not her sole re- 
commendation to us. Five years since an 
English authority of note suggested that ' her 
peculiar beauties were first pointed out to us 
by our trans-atlantic brethren.' There was 
great truth in the remark ; and the fact is 
as creditable to one party, as the admission 
of it is to the other. She has lost nothing 
among us in later days, and her American 
fame was dear to the last. The feeling with 
which the Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 
is regarded, was rightly represented to her 
during the last season, by a gentleman from 
New-England, who called on her at Dub- 
lin, and the enthusiasm of gratification she 



xn 



PREFACE. 



expressed to him, was such as the composi- 
tion itself might lead us to expect. She had 
composed that poem in the g-low of a burst 
of admiration, immediately awakened by the 
chance perusal of a part of some Plymouth 
Oration (as it seemed to be) which she found 
on a scrap of an old newspaper. 'And I can 
tell you the portion of it we like best,' our 
friend added, — 

"And they left unstained, wlmt there they /o?tnd ,•"— 

' Ay, freedom to worship God .'' she quickly 
subjoined ; ' the truth was the best part of it, 
I know : — I rejoice that it is so, and that 
you so understand it.' 

We trust it will be so understood, as long 
as the old Rock itself shall stand. To tell the 
truth of that grand occasion, was praise 
enough for any poet ; it was a truth stronger 
than fiction ever was, and which fiction 
could but degrade. But we know her more 
than as the poet of the Pilgrims. We shall 
cherish the fame which was born with us ; 
she has trusted it safely to our hands. We 
shall remember her as she would herself 
have desired to be remembered, in all 'words 
that breathe, and thoughts that burn.' She 
asks, — let us hear her once more, — 

" When will ye think of me, my friends'? 

When will ye think of me? — 
When the last red light, ihe farewpll of day. 
From the rock and the river is passing away — 
When the air with a deep'ning hush is fraught. 
And the heart grows burden'd with tender thought,— 

Then let it be ! 

When will ye think of me, kind friends'? 

When will ye think of me ? 
When Ihe rose of the rich mid-summertime 
Is fill'd with the hues of its glorious prime — 
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled. 
From the walks where my footsteps no more may 
tread — 

Then let it be! 



When will ye think of me, sweet friends'? 

When will ye think of me ? 
When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye 
At the sound of some olden melody. 
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream. 
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream, 

Then let it be ! 

Thus let my memory be with you, friends ! 

Thus ever think of me ! 
Kindly and gently, but as of one 
For whom 'lis well to be fled and gone — 
As of a bird from a chain unbound. 
As of a wanderer whose home is found — 

So let it be I" 

Ay, and so will it be. It will be with the 

thousands of hearts which have been, like 

Sydney's, ' moved more than with a trumpet,' 

now by the soft sweetness that pleaded for 

room in the Pagan Heaven, 'mid all the 

' nobler dead,' for the unknown ' most loved,' 

" Of whom fame speaks not, with her clarion voice, 
In regal halls;" 

and now with the majestic spirit of the strain 

that gives a ' memory on the mountains,' to 

the brave bands who pledged their faith for 

freedom — 

" Where the light 
Of day's last footstep bathes in burning gold 
Great Righi's cliffs; and where Mount Pilate's height 
Casts o'er his starry lake the darkness of his might." 

It will be, as long as the deep yearnings 

which she knew so well to express, and to 

address, shall remain with men. It will 

be, in the Hour of Prayer, and the Hour of 

Death ; and the Dreams of the Better Land 

will be lighted with hues of the haunting 

beauty of reinembered visions of the song. 

It will be while yet the honour of heroic 

virtue shall live upon human lips, and till 

the holy love, in human hearts so sorely 

tried, shall find, afler all its weary tossing 

upon time's waves, a home where it may 

rest, 

"remembering not 

The moaning of the seal" 



€ontnxtu. 



EARLIER POEMS: 

TJie Restoration of the Works of Art to 

Italy Page 

Tales and Historic Scenes : 

The Abencerrage 

The Widow of Crescentius 

The Last Banquet of Antony and Cleo- 
patra • . 

Alaric in Italy 

The Wife of Asdrubal 

Heliodorus in the Temple 

Night Scene in Genoa 

The Troubadour and Richard Cceur de 
Lion 

The Death of Conradin 



Translations 
Camocns. 



Metastasio. 
Filicaja. 
Pastorini. 
Lope de Vega. 
Manuel. 
Delia Casa. 
Bentivoglio. 
MetastasiQ. 



Quevedo. 
Juan de Tar sis. 
Torquato Tasso. 
Bernardo Tasso. 
Petrarch. 



FROM CaMOENS and OTHER 
"PoETS. 

High in the glowing heavens, 

Wrapt in sad musings 

If in thy glorious home 

This mountain scene, 

Those eyes whose love 

Fair Tajo ! thou, whose 

Thou, to whose power 

Spirit beloved ! whose wing . 
How strange a fate in love. . 

Should Love, the tyrant 

Oft have I sung 

Saved from the perils 

Beside the streams of Babylon 

There blooms a plant, 

Amidst the bitter tears 

He who proclaims 

Waves of Mondego ! 

Where shall I find some desert 
Exempt from every grief,. . . . 
No searching eye can pierce . . 
In tears, the heart oppressed 
Italia ! thou by lavish Nature 
If thus thy fallen grandeur... 

Let the vain courtier 

Pause not with lingering foot. 

These marble domes 

The sainted spirit, 

He shall not dread 

The torrent wave 

Sweet rose ! whose tender. .. 

Fortune ! why thus, 

Wouldst thou to love 

Unbending 'midst the wintry 

Oh ! those alone, whose 

Ah ! cease — those fruitless. . . 

Amidst these scenes, 

Thou, who has fled from life's 
Thou, in thy morn wert like 

This green recess, 

Thou that wouldst mark,. . . . 



Petrarch. If to the sighing breeze 85 

Bemho. Thou, the stern monarch 85 

Lormzini. Sylph of the breeze ! 85 

Oessaer. Hail ! morning sun, 85 

{German Song.) Listen, fair maid, 85 

Chaulieu. Thou grot, whence flows 85 

Oarcilaso de la Enjoy the sweets of life's lux- 

Vega. uriant May 86 

Miscellaneous : 
Lines written in a Hermitage on the Sea- 
Shore 86 

Dirge of a Child 86 

Invocation 86 

To the Memory of General Sir Edward 

Packenham 87 

To the Memory of Sir Henry E-ll-s, who 

fell in the Battle of Waterloo 87 

Guerilla Song , . 87 

The Aged Indian 87 

Evening amongst the Alps 88 

Dirge of the Highland-Chief in Waverley 88 

The Crusader's War-Song 88 

The Death of Clanronald 88 

To the Eye gg 

The Hero's Death 89 

Stanzas on the Death of the Princess 

Charlotte 89 

The Sceptic 91 

Stanzas to the Memory of the Late 

King 95 

Modern Greece 97 

Dartmoor 107 

The Meeting of Wallace and Bruce on 

the Banks of the Carron 109 

The Last Constantine 112 

Belshazzar's Feast 121 

The Boon of Memory 122 

THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA 123 

THE VESPERS OF PALERMO 143 

THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS 164 

RECORDS OF WOMAN : 

Arabella Stuart 167 

The Bride of the Greek Isle 169 * 

The Bride's Farewell 170 

The Switzer's Wife 171 

Properzia Rossi 172 

Gertrude, or Fidelity till Death 173 

Imelda 174 

Edith, a Tale of the Woods 175 

The Indian City, 176 

The Peasant Girl of the Rhone 178 

Indian Woman's Death Song 179 

Joan of Arc, in Rheims 179 

Pauline 180 

Juana 181 



XIV 



CONTENTS. 



The American Forest Girl 181 

Costanza 182 

Madeline, a Domestic Tale 183 

The dueen of Prussia's Tomb 184 

The Memorial Pillar 184 

The Grave of a Poetess 185 

THE FOREST SANCTUARY 186 

NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR 
MUSIC : 
Introductory Stanzas— the Themes of Song 201 
Rhine Song of the German Soldiers after 

Victory 201 

A Song of Dalos 203 

Ancient Greek Chaurit of Victory 20:2 

Naples : a Si)ng of the Syren 202 

The Death-Song of Alcestis 203 

The Fall of D' Assas 203 

The Burial of William the Conqueror 204 

Chorus, translated from the Alcestis of 

Alfleri 204 

Songs of a Guardian Spirit: 

Near thee, still near thee ! 

The Sisters 

Oh ! droop thou not 

The Last Song of Sappho 

Mignon's Song, translated from Goethe. . 

A Song of the Rose. 

Dirge 

The Muffled Drum 

The Wanderer and the Night Flowers. . . 

Echo-Song 

Night-Blowing Flowers 

The Swan and the Sky -Lark 

Songs op Spain : 

Ancient Battle Song 

The Zegri Maid 

The Rio Verde Song 

Seek by the Silvery Darro 

Spanish Evening Hymn 

Bird, that art singing on Ebro's Side. . . 

Moorish Gathering Song 

The Song of Mina's Soldiers 

Mother, oh 1 sing me to rest 

There are Sounds in the dark Ronces- 

valles 

The Curfew Song of England 

The Call to Battle 

Songs for Summer Hours. 

, And I too in Arcadia 211 

The Wandering Wind 212 

Ye are iiot miss'd, fair Flowers. 212 

Willow Song 212 

Leave me not yet 212 

The Orange-Bough 212 

The Stream set free 213 

The Summer's Call 213 

Genius singing to Love 213 

Oh ! Sky-Lark for thy Wing 214 

Music at a Death-Bed 214 

Marshal Schwerin's Grave 214 

Where is the Sea ? 215 

Songs of Captivity : 

Introduction 215 

The Brother's Dirge . 215 

The Alpine Horn 215 

O ye Voices 215 



I dream of all things free. . .- 215 

Far o'er the Sea 216 

The Invocation 216 

The Song of Hope 216 

The Bird at Sea 216 

The Ivy-Song 216 

The Dying Girl and Flowers 217 

Keene, or Lament of an Irish Mother over 

her Son 217 

The Music of St. Patrick's - 218 

England's Dead 218 

Far Away 218 

The Lyre and Flower 218 

Sister, since I met thee last 219 

The Lonely Bird 219 

Dirge at Sea 219 

Pilgrim's Song to the Evening Star 219 

The Spartan's March 219 

The Rock of CaJer Iilris 220 

The Meeting of the Ships 220 

A Farewell to Wales 220 

The Dying Bard's Prophecy 221 

Come Away =. = . . 221 

Music from Shore 221 

Fair Helen of Kirkonnel 221 

Look on me with thy cloudless Eyes. . . = . 222 

I go, sweet friends 222 

If thou hast crushed a Flower 222 

Brightly hast thou fled 222 

Sing to me, Gondolier 222 

O'er the Far Blue Mountains 222 

thou Breeze of Spring 223 

Come to me, Dreams of Heaven 223 

Good Night 223 

Let Her Depart 223 

Water-Lilies 223 

1 would we had not met again 224 

The broken Flower 224 

Fairies' Recall 224 

By a Mountain Stream at rest 224 

The Rock beside the Sea 224 

O ye Voices gone • 224 

The Name of England 224 

Is there some Spirit sighing 28.'> 

Old Norway 225 

Come to me, gentle sleep 225 

English Soldier's Song of Memory 225 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS : 

The Home of Love 226 

Books and Flowers 226 

For a Picture of St. Cecilia attended by 

Angels 227 

The Voice of the Waves.. 227 

The Haunted House 227 

O'Connor's Child 228 

The Brigand Leader and his Wife 228 

The Child's Return from the Woodlands. . 229 

The Faith of Love 229 

The Sister's Dream , 229" 

Written after Visiting a Tomb 230 

Prologue to the Tragedy of Fiesco 230 

A Farewell to Abbotsford 230 

The Victor 231 

Scene in a Dalecarlian Mine 231 

Greek Songs : 

The Storm of Delphi. 231 

The Bowl of Liberty 232 



CONTENTS. 



XV 



The Voice of Scio 232 

The Urn and Sword 233 

The Myrtle-Bough 233 

Songs of the Cid : 

The Cid's Departure into Exile 233 

The Cid's Death-Bed 233 

The Cid's Funeral Procession 234 

Tlie Cid's Rising 235 

The Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbey 235 

Nature's Farewell 235 

The Lyre's Lament 236 

The Wounded Eagle 236 

The Nightingale's Death-Song 236 

The Diver 237 

Triumphant Music 237 

SCENES AND HYMNS OP LIFE : 

The English Martyrs 238 

Flowers and Music in a room of Sickness 240 

Cathedral Hymn 241 

Wood Walk and Hymn 242 

Prayer of the Lonely Student 244 

The Traveller's Evening Song 244 

Burial of an Emigrant's Child in the Fo- 
rests 245 

Easter-Day in a Mountain Church-Yard.. 246 

The Child Reading the Bible 247 

A Poet's Dying Hymn 247 

The Funeral Day of Sir Walter Scott 248 

The Prayer in the Wilderness 249 

Hymn of the Vaudois Mountaineers in 

times of Persecution - 249 

Prisoners' Evening Service 250 

Prayer at Sea after Victory 251 

The Indian's Revenge 251 

The Day of Flowers 2,53 

Evening Song of the Weary 254 

Hymn of the Traveller's Household on his 

Return 254 

The Painter's Last Work 255 

A Prayer of Affection 256 

Mother's Litany by the Sick-Bed of a Child 256 
Night Hymn at Sea. 256 

Female Characters of Scripture ; a Se- 
ries OF Sonnets : 

Invocation. 256 

The Song of Miriam 257 

Ruth 257 

The Vigil of Rizpah 257 

Tiie Reply of the Shunamite Woman.. . 257 

The Annunciation 2.57 

The Song of tiie Virgin 257 

The Penitent anointing Christ's Feet.. . 257 

Mary at the Feet of Christ 257 

The Sisters of Bethany after the Death 

of Lazarus 257 

The Memorial of Mary 258 

The Women of Jerusalem at the Cross. 258 

Mary Magdalene at the Sepulchre 258 

Mary Magdalene bearing tidings of the 

Resurrection 258 

The Two Monuments 258 

The Memory of the Dead 259 

Angel Visits 259 

A Penitent's Return 259 

A Thought of Paradise 260 

Let us Depart 260 

On a Picture of Christ bearing the Cross. 261 
Communings with Thought 261 



Sonnets, Devotional and Memorial : 

The Sacred Harp 261 

To a Family Bible 261 

Repose of a Holy Family 262 

Picture of the Infant Christ with Flow- 
ers 262 

On a remembered Picture of Christ. . . . 262 

The Children whom Jesus blest 262 

Mountain Sanctuaries. ., , 262 

Tlie Lilies of the Field 262 

The Birds of tlie Air 262 

The Raising of the Widow's Son 2G2 

The Olive Tree 263 

The Darkness of the Crucifi.xion 263 

Places of Worship 263 

Old Church in an English Park 263 

A Church in North Wales 263 

Louise Schepler 263 

To the same 263 

Lines to a Butterfly resting on a Skull. . . 263 

The Palmer 264 

The Water-Lily 264 

Thought from an Italian Poet. 264 

Elysium 264 



HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD : 
Introductory Verses 



The Rainbow 

Tlie Sun 

The Rivers 

The Stars 

The Ocean 

The Thunder-Storm 

The Birds 

The Sky-Lark 

The Nightingale 

The Northern Spring 

Paraphrase of Psalm cxlviii 

Christmas Carol 

Christ Walking on the Water 

A Father reading the Bible 

Epitaph over the Grave of two Brothers, a 
Child and a Youth 

The Child's first Grief 

A Dirge 

Hymn by the Sick Bed of a Mother 

Birth-Day Lines to a young Child in Au- 
tumn 

On a similar occasion 

SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS : 

A Spirit's Return 

The Lady of Provence 

The Coronation of Inez de Castro 

Italian Girl's Hymn to the Virgin 

To a departed Spirit 

The Chamois Hunter's Love 

Song of Emigration 

The Indian with his dead Child 

The King of Arragon's lament for his Bro- 
ther 

The Vaudois Wife 

The Guerilla Leader's Vow 

The Return 

Thekla at her Lover's Grave 

The Sisters of Scio 

Bernardo del Carpio 

The Tomb of Madame Langhans 

The E.\-ile's Dirge 

The Dreaming Child 



265 
266 
266 
266 
266 
267 
267 
267 



268 
268 
269 
269 
269 

269 
269 
270 
270 

270 
270 



270 
272 
273 
274 
274 
275 
275 
276 

276 
277 
277 
278 
278 
278 
279 
279 
280 
280 



XVI 



CONTENTS. 



The Charmed Picture 280 

Parting Words 281 

The Message to the Dead 281 

The Two Homes , 281 

The Soldier's Death-Bed 2S2 

The Image in the Heart - 282 

Woman on the Field of Battle 283 

The Land of Dreams 283 

The Deserted House 284 

The Stranger's Heart 284 

Come Home 2S4 

The Fountain of Oblivion 284 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS : 

The Bridal Day 285 

The Ancestral Song 285 

The Magic Glass 286 

Corinne at the Capitol 286 

The Ruin 287 

The Minster 287 

The Song of Night 288 

The Storm Painter in his Dungeon 288 

Death and the Warrior 289 

The Two Voices 289 

The Parting Ship 289 

The Last Tree of the Forest 290 

The Streams 290 

The Voice of the Wind 291 

The Vigil of Arms 291 

The Beings of the Mind 292 

Tasso's Coronation 292 

The Better Land 293 

The Requiem of Genius 293 

Sadness and Mirth - 293 

Second Sight 294 

The Sea-Bird flying Inland. 294 

The Sleeper 094 

The Mirror in the Deserted Hall 294 

LAYS OF MANY LANDS, AND OTHER 
POEMS. 

Moorish Bridal Song 295 

The Sword of the Tomb 295 

The Bird's Release 290 

Valkyriur Song 297 

Swiss Song, on the Anniversary of an 

Ancient Battle '. 297 

The Cavern of the Three Tells 298 

The Messenger Bird 298 

The Stranger in Louisiana 299 

The Bended Bow 299 

The Isle of Founts 299 

He never smiled again 300 

CcBur de Lion at the Bier of his Father.. . 300 
The Vassal's Lament for the Fallen Tree, 301 

Brandenhurgh Harvest-Song 301 

The Wild Huntsman 302 

The Shade of Theseus 302 

Ancient Greek Song of Exile 302 

Greek Funeral Chant or Myriologue 303 

The Parting Song 3O4 

The Siiliote Mother 304 

The Farewell to the Dead 305 

The Treasures of the Deep 305 

The Crusader's Return 300 

Bring Flowers 306 

Thekla's Song ; or the Voice of a Spirit. . 306 

The Revellers 307 

The Conqueror's Sleep. 307 



Our Lady's Well = 307 

The Parting of Summer 308 

The Songs of our Fathers 308 

The World in the open Air 308 

Kindred Hearts 309 

The Traveller at the Source of the Nile. . 309 

Casablanca 310 

The Dial of Flowers 310 

Our Daily Paths 310 

The Cross in the Wilderness 311 

Last Rites 311 

The Hebrew Mother 312 

The Wreck 312 

The Trumpet 313 

Evening Prayer at a Girls' School 313 

The Hour of Death 313 

The Cliffs of Dover 314 

The Lost Pleiad 314 

The Graves of Martyrs 314 

The Voice of Home to the Prodigal 314 

The Hour of Prayer 315 

The Wakening 315 

The Breeze from Shore 315 

Music of Yesterday 316 . 

The Dying Improvisatore 316 

The Forsaken Hearth 316 

The Dreamer 317 

Psyche borne by Zephyrs to the Island of 

Pleasure 317 

The Wings of the Dove 3J8 

The Homes of England 318 

The Sicilian Captive 318 

Ivan the Czar 339 

Cardan's Prophecy 320 

The Lady of the Castle 321 

The Mourner for the Barmecides 321 

The Captive Knight 322 

The Spanish Chapel 322 

The Kaiser's Feast 323 

Tasso and his Sister _,... 323 

To Wordsworth ,,...,, 324 

Ulla, or the Adjuration 324 

A Monarch's Death-Bed 325 

To the Memory of Heber 325 

The Adopted Child .._ 325 

Korner and his Sister 326 

The Death-Day of Korner 326 

Invocation 337 

An Hour of Romance 327 

A Voyager's Dream of Land 327 

The Efligies 333 

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in 

New-England 328 

The Spirit's Mysteries 329 " 

The Palm-Tree 329 

The Departed 309 

The Child's Last Sleep 330 

The Sunbeam 330 

Breathings of Spring 330 

The Illuminated City 33f 

The Spells of Home 331 

Roman Girl's Song 331 

The Distant Ship 332 

The Birds of Passage 332 

The Graves of a Household 332 

Mozart's Requiem 333 

The Image in Lava 333 

The Last Wish 333 

Fairy Favours 334 



CONTENTS. 



xvu 



A Parting Song 334 

The Soundof theSea 334 

The Funeral Genius 335 

Owen Glendwyer's War-Song 335 

Troubadour Song 336 

The Penitent's Offering 336 

The Wish 336 

Stanzas .- 336 

The Welcome to Death 337 

The Voice of Music 337 

Swiss Home-Sickness.. 337 

Monumental Inscription 337 

The Voice of Spring....- -.- 338 

A Thought of the Rose -. 338 

The Child and Dove 338 

The Vaudois Valleys ..-. . . 339 

Christ's Agony in the Garden............. 339 

The Voice of God ............ 339 

To the Sea 339 

On a Leaf from the Tomb of Virgil 340 

The Angels' Call 340 

The Spell 340 

The Shepherd Poet of the Alps.. ......... 340 

The Release of Tasso -.-.-.... 342 

Things that Change. . .- -....- ,.-.-. . 343 

Tlie Prayer for Life -.-.-.-.-.-.. 343 

The Battle Field ...^^ --,.-. 343 

The Recall .. ..^. ..^.«-.. . 344 

The Summons ,.,,...,...-,^^-^. , 344 

Death of an Infant 344 

The Bell at Sea 345 

A Thought of Home at Sea 345 

A Thought of the Future 345 

To the Memory of a Friend and Relative, 345 



Song 



346 



Man and Woman 346 

The Cottage Girl 346 



A Farewell Song 346 

The Ruined House 347 

Haunted Ground 347 

The Ivy of Kenilworth 348 

The Fountain of Marah 348 

Evening Song of the Tyrolese Peasants. . 348 

Lights and Shades 348 

The Childe's Destiny 349 

The Subterranean Stream 349 

Fragment 349 

The Chieftain's Song 350 

The Sleeper of Marathon 350 

Woman and Fame 350 

We Return no More .- 350 

Love and Death 351 

The Tombs of PlatEea 351 

The Meeting of the Brothers 351, 

The View from Castri 353 

The Festal Hour 352 

Song of the Battle of Morgarten 353 

Chorus, translated from Manzoni's "Conte 

di Carmagnola," .-..-..,- 354 

The Meeting of the Bards ,^... 355 

O, ye Hours .«..^. 356 

The Song of the Gifted ._. ....... 356 

Marguerite of France 357 

The Fallen Lime-Tree 358 

The Freed Bird 358 

The Flower of the Desert 358 

The Huguenot's Farewell. ..... .... ,. 359 

The Wanderer ,. 359 

The Silent Multitude 359 

Washington's Statue. 360 

The Broken Lute 360 

Sabbath Sonnet 361 

The Cross of the South 361 

Poetry of the Psalms 361 



STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF MRS. HEMANS. 



" The rose — the glorious rose is gone." — Lays of Majiy Lands. 



Bring flowers to crrnvn the cup and lute, — 

Bring flowers, — the bride is near ; 
Bring flowers to soothe the captive's cell, 

Bring flowers to strew the bier ! 
Bring flowers ! thus said the lovely song ; 

And shall they not be brought 
To her who link'd the offering 

With feeling and with thought ? 

Bring flowers, — the perfumed and thepm-e, — 

Those with the morning dew, 
A sigh in ev'ry fragrant leaf, 

A tear on ev'ry hue. 
So pure, so sweet thy life has been, 

So filling earth and air 
With odours and with loveliness, 

Till common scenes grew fair. 

Thy song around our daily path 

Flung beauty born of dreams, 
That shadows on the actual world 

The spirit's sunny gleams. 
Mysterious influence, that to earth 

Brings down the heaven above. 
And fills the universal heart 

With universal love. 

Such gifts were thine, — as from the block. 

The unform'd and the cold. 
The sculptor calls to breathing life 

Some shape of perfect mould. 
So thou from common thoughts and things 

Didst call a charmed song, 
Which on a sweet and swelling tide 

Bore the full soul along. 

And thou from far and foreign lands 

Didst bring back many a tone, 
And giving such new music still, 

A music of tliine own. 
A lofty strain of generous thoughts. 

And yet subdued and sweet, — 
An angel's song, who sings of earth. 

Whose cares are at his feet. 



And yet thy song is sorrowful. 

Its beauty is not bloom ; 
The hopes of which it breathes, are hopes 

That look beyond the tomb. 
Thy song is sorrowful as winds 

That wander o'er the plain. 
And ask for summer's vanish'd flowers, 

And ask for them in vain. 

Air 1 dearly purchased is the gift, 

The gift of song like thine ; 
A fated doom is hers who stands 

The priestess of the shrine. 
The crowd — they only see the crown. 

They only hear the hymn ; — 
They mark not that the cheek is pale. 

And that the eye is dim. 

Wound to a pitch too exquisite, 

The soul's fine chords are wrung ; 
With misery and melody 

They are too highly strung. 
The heart is made too sensitive 

Life's daily pain to bear ; 
It beats in music, but it beats 

Beneath a deep despair. 

It never meets the love it paints, 
The love for which it pines ; 

Too much of Heaven is in the faith 
That such a heart enshrines. 

The meteor wreath the poet wears- 
Must make a lonely lot ; 

It dazzles, only to divide 

From those who wear it not. 

Didst thou not tremble at thy fame, 

And loathe its bitter price, 
While what to others triumph seem'd, 

To thee was sacrifice ? 
Oh ! Flower brought from Paradise 

To this cold world of ours. 
Shadows of beauty such as thine 

Recall thy native bowers. 



XX STANZAS ON MRS. HEMANS. 


Let others thank thee — 'twas for them 




The charm that dwelt in songs of thine 


Thy soft leaves tliou didst wreathe : 




My inmost spirit moved ; 


The red rose wastes itself in sighs 




And yet I feel as thou hadst been 


Whose sweetness others breathe ! 




Not half enough beloved. 


And they have thank'd thee — many a 


ip 


They say that thou wert faint, and worn 


Has ask'd of thine for words, 




With suffering and with care ; 


When thoughts, life's finer thoughts, 


have 


What music must have fill'd the soul 


touch'd 




That had so much to spare ! 


The spirit's inmost chords. 




Oh, weary One ! since thou art laid 


How many loved and honour'd thee 




Within thy mother's breast — 


Who only knew thy name ; 




The green, the quiet mother-earth — 


Which o'er the weary working world 




Thrice blessed be thy rest ! 


Like starry music came ! 




Thy heart is left within our hearts, 


With what still hours of calm delight 




Although life's pang is o'er ; 


Thy songs and image blend ; 




But the quick tears are in my eyes. 


I cannot choose but think thou wert 




And I can write no more. 


An old familiar friend. 




L. E. L. 



POEMS 



^tUrt p^isriii^* 



THE 

RESTORATION 

OF THE 

WORKS OF ART TO ITALY: 

A POEIM. 



" But the joy of discovery was ehort, and the triumph of 
taste transitory. The French, who in every invasion 
have been the scourge of Italy, and have rivalled or 
rather surpassed the rapacity of the Goths and Van- 
dals, laid their sacrilegious hands on the unparal- 
leled collection of the Vatican, tore its masterpieces 
from their pedestals, and dragging them from their 
temples of marble, transported them to Paris, and 
consigned them to the dull sullen halls, or rather sta- 
bles, of the Louvre." Eustace's Classical Tour 

throush Italy, vol. ii. p. 60. 



Italia, Italia ! tu cui feo la Sorte 
Dodo infelice di bellezza, onde hai 
Funesta dote d' infiniti guai, 
Che 'u fronte scriiti per gran doglia porte ; 

Deh, fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte. 

Filkaja. 

Land of departed fame ! whose classic plains 
Have protidly echoed to immortal strains ; 
Whose hallow'd soil hath given the great and 

brave. 
Day-stars of life, a birth-place and a grave; 
Home of the Arts ! where glory's faded smile 
Sheds lingering light o'er many a mouldering pile ; 
Proud wreck of vanish'd power, of splendour fled. 
Majestic temple of the mighty dead I 
Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay, 
Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day ; 
Though dimm'd thy brightness, riveted thy chain, 
Yet, fallen Italy! rejoice again ! 
Lost, lovely realm! once more 't is thine to gaze 
On the rich relics of subliraer days. 

Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades, 
Or sacred Tivoli's romantic glades; 
Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom, 
Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil's tomb; 
Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga's lonely wave, 
Swell'd the deep echoes of the fountain's cave. 
Or thrill'd the soul in Tasso's numbers high, 
Those magic strains of love and chivalry ; 
If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove. 
Haunting the myrtle-vale, the laurel grove; 
Oh! rouse once more the daring soul of song. 
Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long. 
And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered, 
Hallow'd by time, by absence more endear'd. 

And breathe to those the strain, whose warrior- 
might. 
Each danger stemm'd, prevail'd in every fight, 

7 



Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured, 
Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured. 
Sing of that leader, whose ascendant mind 
Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind ; 
Whose banners track'd the vanquish'd Eagle's flight 
O'er many a plain, and dark sierra's height; 
Who bade once more the wild, heroic lay 
Record the deeds of Roncesvalles' day ; 
Who, through each mountain-pass of rock and 

snow. 
An Alpine huntsraain, chased the fear-struck foe; 
Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales. 
Rich Languedoc ! that fan thy glowing vales. 
And 'mid those scenes renew'd th' achievements 

high, 
Bequeatli'd to fame by England's ancestry. 

Yet, when the storm seem'd hush'd, the conflict 
past. 
One strife remain'd — the mightiest and the last! 
Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour. 
Untamed Ambition summon'd all his power; 
Vengeance and Pride, to frenzy roused, were there. 
And the stern might of resolute Despair. 
Isle of the free ! 'twas then thy chatnpions stood, 
Breasting unmoved the combat's wildest flood. 
Sunbeam of Battle, then thy spirit shone, 
Glovv'd in each breast, and sunk with life alone. 

Oh hearts devoted ! whose illustrious doom. 
Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb. 
Ye, firm and faithful, in th' ordeal tried 
Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified ; 
Shrined, not entomb'd, ye rest in sacred earth, 
Hallow'd by deeds of more than mortal worth. 
What though to mark vvhere sleeps heroic dust. 
No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust. 
Yours, on the scene where valour's race was run, 
A prouder sepulchre— the field ye won ! 
There every mead, each cabin's lowly name. 
Shall live a watch-word blended with your fame ; 
And well may flowers suffice those graves to crown, 
That ask no urn to blazon their renown. 
There shall the bard in future ages tread, 
And bless each wreath that blossoms o'er the dead; 
Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave 
O'er the low mounds, the altars of the brave ; 
Pause o'er each warrior's grass-grown bed, and 

hear. 
In every breeze, some name to glory dear. 
And as the shades of twilight close around. 
With martial pageants peopie all the ground. 
Thither unborn descendants of the slain 
Shall throng, as pilgrims to some holy fane. 
While as they trace each spot, whose records tell 
Where fought their fathers, and prevail'd, and fell, 
Warm in their souls, shall loftiest feelings glow. 
Claiming proud kindred with the dust below! 
And many an age shall see the brave repair. 
To learn the liero's bright devotion there. 

And well, Ausonia ! may that field of fame. 
From thee one song of echoing triumph claim. 
Land of the lyre ! 'twas there the avenging sword 
Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored ; 
Those precious trophies o'er thy realms that throw 
A veil of radiance, hiding half thy woe, 



50 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



And bid the stranger for a while forget 

How deep tliy fall, and deem thee glorious yet. 

Yes ! fair creations, to perfection wrought, 
Embodied visions of ascending thought I 
Forms of sublimity ! by Genius traced, 
In tints that vindicate adoring taste ; 
Whose bright originals, to earth unknown. 
Live in the spheres encircling Glory's throne ; 
Models of art, to deathless fame consign'd, 
Stamp'd with the high-born majesty of mind; 
Yes, matchless works ! your presence shall restore 
One beam of splendour to your native shore, 
And her sad scenes of lost renown illume, 
As the bright sunset gilds some hero's tomb. 

Oh! ne'er, in other climes, though many an eye 
Dwelt on your charms in beaming ecstasy; 
Ne'er was it yours to bid the soul expand 
With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly grand, 
As in that realm, where each faint breeze's moan 
Seems a low dirge for glorious ages gone ; 
Where 'mid the ruin'd shrines oif many a vale, 
E'en Desolation tells a haughty tale. 
And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends. 
But its proud name with song eternal blends ! 

Yes! in those scenes, where every ancient stream 
Bids memory kindle o'er some lofty theme ; 
Where every marble deeds of fame records, 
Each ruin tells of Earth's departed lords ; 
And the deep tones of inspiration swell. 
From each wild olive-wood and Alpine dell ; 
Where heroes slumber, on their battle plains, 
'Mid prostrate altars, and deserted fanes. 
And Fancy communes in each lonely spot. 
With shades of those who ne'er shall be forgot ; 
There was your home, and there your power im- 
prest. 
With tenfold awe, the pilgrim's glowing breast ; 
And as the wind's deep thrills, and mystic sighs 
Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies, 
Thus at your influence, starting from repose, 
Thought, Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose. 

Fair Florence ! Q.ueen of Arno's lovely vale ! 
Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale, 
And sternly smiled in retribution's hour. 
To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler's power. 
Too long the spirits of thy noble dead 
Mourn 'd o'er the domes they rear'd in ages fled. 
Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced, 
Temples of genius, palaces of taste. 
Too long, with sad and desolated mien, 
Eeveal'd where conquest's lawless track had been ; 
Reft of each form with brighter life imbued. 
Lonely they frown'd, a desert solitude. 
Florence ! th' Oppressor's noon of pride is o'er, 
Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more ! 

As one, who, starting at the dawn of day 
From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay. 
With transport heighten'd by those ills of night, 
Hails the rich glories of expanding light ; 
E'en thus awakening from thy dreams of woe. 
While Heaven's own hues in radiance round thee 

glow. 
With warmer ecstasy 'tis thine to trace 
Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace ; 
More bright, more prized, more precious since de- 
plored 
As loved, lost relics, ne'er to be restored. 
Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed 
By fond affection bending o'er the dead. 

Athens of Italy! once more are thine 
Those matchless gems of Art's exhaustlessmine. 
For thee bright Genius darts his living beam, 
Warm o'er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream, 
And forms august as natives of the sky. 
Rise round each fane in faultless majesty, 
So chastely perfect, so serenely grand. 
They seem creations of no mortal hand. 

Ye, at whose voice foir Art, with eagle glance. 
Burst in full splendour from her death-like trance ; 
Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations wake, 
And daring Intellect his bondage break; 



Beneath whose eye the Lords of song arose. 
And snatch'd the Tuscan lyre from long repose; 
And bade its pealing energies resound, 
With power electric, through the realms around ; 
Oh ! high in thought, magnificent in soul! 
Born to inspire, enlighten, and control; 
Cosmo, Lorenzo! view your reign once more, 
The shrine where nations mingle to adore ! 
Again th' Enthusiast there, with ardent gaze, 
Shall hail the mighty of departed days : 
Those sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind 
Seems in the marble's breathing mould enshrined, 
Still, with ascendant power, the world to awe, 
Still the deep homage of the heart to draw; 
To breathe some spell of holiness around, 
Bid all the scene be consecrated ground. 
And from the stone, by inspiration wrought. 
Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought. 

There, thou fair offspring of immortal Mind! 
Love's radiant Goddess, Idol of mankind ! 
Once the bright object of Devotion's vow, 
Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now. 
Oh! who can tell what beams of heavenly light 
Flash'd o'er the sculptor's intellectual sight. 
How many a glimpse reveal'd to him alone, 
Made brighter beings, nobler worlds his own : 
Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless, 
Burst into life thy pomp of loveliness I 

Young Genius there, while dwells his kindling 
eye 
On forms, instinct with bright divinity. 
While new-born powers, dilating in his heart, 
Embrace the full magnificence of Art ; 
From scenes by Raphaels gifted hand array'd ; 
From dreams of heaven, by Angelo portray'd ; 
From each fair work of Grecian skill sublime, 
Seal'd with perfection, "sanctified by time ;" 
Shall catch a kindred glow, and proudly feel 
His spirit burn with emulative zeal, 
Buoyant with loftier hopes his soul shall rise, 
Imbued, at once, with nobler energies ; 
O'er life's dim scenes on rapid pinion soar. 
And worlds of visionary grace explore. 
Till his bold hand give glory's day-dreams birth. 
And with new wonders charm admiring earth. 

Venice, exult, and o'er thy moonlight seas. 
Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze ! 
What though long fled those years of martial fame. 
That shed romantic lustre o'er thy name. 
Though to the winds thy streamers idly play. 
And the wild waves another Ciueen obey ; 
Though quench'd the spirit of thine ancient race, 
And power and freedom scarce have left a trace ; 
Yet still shall Art her splendours round thee cast, 
And gild the wreck of years for ever past. 
Again thy fanes may boast a Titian's dyes. 
Whose clear, soft brilliance emulates thy skies, 
And scenes that glow in colouring's richest bloom, 
With life's warm flush Palladian halls illume. 
From thy rich dome again the unrivall'd steed 
Starts to existence, rushes into speed. 
Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame. 
Panting with ardour, vivified with flame. 

Proud Racers of the Sun ! to fancy's thought. 
Burning with spirit, from his essence caught, 
No mortal birth ye seem — but form'd to bear 
Heaven's car of triumph through the realms of 

air; 
To range uncurb'd the pathless fields of space, 
The winds your rivals in the glorious race ; 
Traverse empyreal spheres with buoyant feet. 
Free as the zephyr, as the shot star fleet ; 
And waft through worlds unknown the vital ray. 
The flame that wakes creations into day. 
Creatures of fire and ether ! wing'd with light, 
To track the regions of the Infinite ! 
From purer elements whose life was drawn, 
Sprung from the sunbeam, offspring of the dawn, 
What years on years, in silence gliding bj'. 
Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry ! 
Moulded by Art to dignify alone 
Her own bright deity's resplendent throne. 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



61 



Since first her skill their fiery grace bestow'd, 
Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode, 
How many a race, whose tales of glory seem 
An echo's voice — the music of a dream, 
Whose records feebly from oblivion save 
A few bright traces of the wise and 'brave ; 
How many a state, whose pillar'd strengthsublime 
Defied the storms of war, the waves of time, 
Towering o'er earth majestic and alone. 
Fortress of power— has flourish'd and is gone ! 
And they, from clime to clime by conquest borne. 
Each fieeting triumph destined to adorn, 
They, that of powers and kingdoms lost and won, 
Have seen the noontide and the setting sun. 
Consummate still in every grace remain, 
As o'er tlieir heads had ages roU'd in vain ! 
Ages, victorious, in their ceaseless flight, 
O'er countless monuments of earthly might! 
While she, from fair Byzantium's lost domain, 
Wiio bore those treasures to her ocean-reign. 
'Midst the blue deep, who rear'd her island throne, 
And call'd th' infinitude of waves her own ; 
Venice the proud, the regent of the sea, 
Welcomes in chains the trophies of the free ! 

And thou, whose Eagle's towering plume un- 
furl'd. 
Once cast its shadow o'er a vassal world. 
Eternal city! round whose Curule throne 
The lords of nations knelt in ages flown ; 
Thou, whose Augustan years have left to time, 
Immortal records of their glorious prime ; 
When deathless bards, thine olive-shades among, 
Swell'd the high raptures of heroic song ; 
Fair, fallen empress ! raise thy languid head 
From the cold altars of th' illustrious dead, 
And once again, with fond delight, survey 
The proud memorials of thy noblest day. 

Lo ! where thy sons, oh Rome ! a god-like train. 
In imaged majesty return again I 
Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien 

august. 
O'er scenes that shrine their venerable dust. 
Those forms, those features, luminous with soul. 
Still o'er thy children seem to claim control; 
With awful grace arrest the pilgrim's glance, 
Bind his rapt soul in elevating trance, 
And bid the past, to fancy's ardent eyes. 
From time's dim sepulchre in glory rise. 

Souls of the lofty! whose undying names, 
Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims ; 
Oh ! with your images could fate restore 
Your own high spirit to your sons once more ; 
Patriots and heroes ! could those flames return, 
That bade your hearts with freedom's ardour burn. 
Then from the sacred ashes of the first. 
Might a new Rome in phoenix-grandeur burst ! 
With one bright glance dispel the horizon's gloom, 
With one lond call wake Empire from the tomb ; 
Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown, 
Lift her dread ^gis with majestic frown. 
Unchain her Eagle's wing, and guide his flight, 
To bathe its plumage in the fount of light. 

Vain dream ! degraded Rome ! thy noon is o'er, 
Once lost, thy spirit shall revive no more. 
It sleeps with those, the sons of other days. 
Who fix'd on thee the world's adoring gaze ; 
Those, blest to live, while yet thy star was high, 
More blest, ere darkness quench'd its beam, to die ! 

Yet, though thy faithless tutelary powers 
Have fled thy shrines, left desolate thy towers. 
Still, still to thee shall nations bend their way. 
Revered in ruin, sovereign in decay ! 
Oh ! what can realms, in fame's full zenith, boast. 
To match the relics of thy splendour lost ! 
By Tiber's waves, on each illustrious hill, 
Genius and Taste shall love to wander still. 
For there has Art survived an empire's doom, 
And rear'd her throne o'er Latium's trophied tomb ; 
She from the dust recalls the brave and free. 
Peopling each scene with beings worthy thee ! 



Oh! ne'er again may War, with lightning-stroke, 
Rend its last honours from the shatter'd oak ! 
Long be those works, revered by ages, thine, 
To lend one triumph to thy dim decline. 

Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful 

fire 
In all the grandeur of celestial ire. 
Once more thine own, th' immortal Archer's form, 
Shedsradianceround, with more than Being warm. 
Oh I who could view, nor deem that perfect frame, 
A living temple of ethereal flame ? 
Loi-d of the day-star ! how may words portray 
Of thy chaste glory one reflected ray ? 
Whate'er the soul could dream, the hand could 

trace. 
Of regal dignity, and heavenly grace ; 
Each purer eflluence of the fair and bright. 
Whose fitful gleams have broke on mortal sight; 
Each bold idea, borrow'd from the sky. 
To vest th' embodied form of deity ; 
All, all in the ennobled and refined. 
Breathe and enchant, transcendently combined! 
Son of Elysium ! years and ages gone 
Have bow'd in speecliless homage, at thy throne ; 
And days unborn, and nations yet to be, 
Shall gaze, absorb'd in ecstasy, on thee ! 

And thou triumphantwreck, (l)e'en yet sublime, 
Disputed trophy, claim'd by Art and Time, 
Hail to that scene again, where Genius caught 
From thee its fervours of diviner thought ! 
Where He, th' inspired one, whose gigantic mind 
Lived in some sphere, to him alone assign'd ; 
Who from the past, the future, and th' unseen. 
Could call up forms of more than earthly mien ; 
Unrivall'd Angelo on thee would gaze. 
Till his full soul imbibed perfection's blaze! 
And who but he, that Prince of Art, might dare 
Thy sovereign greatness view without despair? 
Emblem of Rome ! from power's meridian hurl'd, 
Yet claiming still the homage of the world. 

What hadst thou been, ere barbarous hand de- 
faced 
The work of wonder, idolized by taste? 
Oh ! worthy still of some divine abode. 
Mould of a conqueror ! (2) ruin of a god! 
Still, like some broken gem, whose quenchless 

beam 
From each bright fragment pours its vital stream, 
'Tis thine, by fate unconquer'd, to dispense 
From every part, some ray of excellence ! 
E'en yet, inform'd with essence from on high. 
Thine is no trace of frail mortality ! 
Within that frame a purer being glows. 
Through viewless veins a brighter current flows; 
Fill'd with immortal life, each muscle swells, 
In every line supernal grandeur dwells. 

Consummate work ! the noblest and the last. 
Of Grecian Freedom, (3) ere her reign was past. 
Nurse of the mighty, she, while lingering still 
Her mantle flow'd o'er many a classic hill. 
Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed, 
A Hero's image to the world bequeathed ; 
Enshrined in thee th' imperishable ray 
Of high-soul'd Genius, foster'd by her sway, 
And bade thee teach, to ages yet unborn. 
What lofty dreams were hers— who never shall 
return ! 

And mark yon group, transfix'd with many a 
throe 
Seal'd with the image of eternal woe : 
With fearful truth, terrific power, exprest, 
Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonize the breast, 
And the stern combat picture to mankind. 
Of sufl'ering nature, and enduring mind. 
Oh, mighty conflict! though his pains intense 
Distend each nerve, and dart through every sense ; 
Though fix'd on him, his children's suppliant eyes 
Implore the aid avenging fate denies; 
Though, with the giant-snake in fruitless strife, 
Heaves every muscle with convulsive life, 



52 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



And in each limb Existence writlies, enroU'd 
'Mid tlie dread circles of the venom'd fold ; 
Yet the strong spirit lives— and not a cry 
Shall own the might of Nature's agony! 
That furrow'd brow unconquer'd soul reveals, 
That patient eye to angry Heaven appeals, 
That struggling bosom concentrates its breath, 
Nor yields one moan to torture or to death ! (4) 

Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art! 
With speechless horror to congeal the heart. 
To freeze each pulse, and dart through every vein 
Cold thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain ; 
Yet teach the spirit how its lofty power 
May brave the pangs of fate's severest hour. 

Turn from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze 
On scenes where Painting all her skill displays: 
Landscapes, by colouring drest in richer dyes. 
More mellow'd sunshine, more unclouded skies; 
Or dreams of bliss, to dying Martyrs given. 
Descending Seraphs robed in beams of heaven. 

Oh! sovereign Masters of tlie Pencils might. 
Its depth of shadow, and its blaze of light. 
Ye, whose bold thought, disdaining every bound. 
Explored the worlds above, below, around, 
Chililren of Italy ' who staiul alone. 
And unapproach'd, 'midst regions all your own ; 
What scenes, what beings blest your favour'd sight, 
Severely grand, unutterably bright! 
Triumphant spirits ! your exulting eye 
Could meet the noontide of eternity. 
And gaze untired, undaunted, uncontroll'd, 
On all that Fancy trembles to behold. 
Bright on your view such forms their splendour 

shed, 
As hurst on Prophet-bards in ages fled : 
Forms that to trace, no hand but yours might dare, 
Darkly sublime, or exquisitely fair. 
These o'er the walls your magic skill array'd, 
Glow in rich sunshine, gleam through melting 

shade. 
Float in light grace, in awful greatness tower, 
And breathe and move, the records of your power. 
Inspired of Heaven ! what heighten'd pomp ye cast 
O'er all the deathless trophies of the past! 
Round many a marble fane and classic dome, 
Asserting still the majesty of Rome; 
Round many a work that bids the world believe 
What Grecian Art could image and achieve; 
Again, creative minds, your visions throw 
Life's chasien'd warmth, and Beauty's mellowest 

glow, 
And when the morn's bright beams and mantling 

dyes 
Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies. 
Or evening suns illume, with purple smile, 
The Parian altar, and the pillar'd aisle. 
Then, as the full, or soften'd radiance falls, 
On Angel-groups that hover o'er the walls. 
Well may those Temples, where your hand has 

shed 
Light o'er the tomb, existence round the dead, 
Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair. 
That naught of earth should find admittance there. 
Some sphere, where Beiiigs, to mankind unknown. 
Dwell in the brightness of their pomp, alone! 

Hence, ye vain Actions, fancy's erring theme, 
Gods of illusion! phantoms of a dream! 
Frail, powerless idols of departed time, 
Fables of song, delusive, though sublime! 
To loftier tasks has Roman Art assign'd 
Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind! 
From brighter streams her vast ideas flow'd, 
With purer fire her ardent spirit glow'd. 
To her 'twas given in fancy to explore 
The land of niiracles, the holiest shore ; 
That realm where first the light of life was sent. 
The loved, the punish'd, of th' Omnipotent! 
O'er Judah's hills lierthoughts inspired wouldstray. 
Through Jordan's vslleys trace their lonely way; 
By Siloa's brook, or Almotana's(.'5) deep, 
Chain'd in dead silence, and unbroken sleep ; 
Scenes whose cleft rocks, and blasted deserts, tell 
Wheie pass'd th' Eternal, where his anger fell ! 



Where oft his voice the words of fate reveal'd, 
SwelI'd in the whirlwind, in the thunder peal'd, 
Or heard by prophets in some palmy vale, 
Breath'd ' still small' whispers on the midnightgale. 
There dwelt her spirit — there her hand portray'd, 
'Mid the lone wilderness or cedar-shade. 
Ethereal forms, with awful missions fraught. 
Or Patriarch-seers, absorb'd in sacred thought. 
Bards, in high converse with the world of rest, 
Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest. 
But chief to Him, the Conqueror of the grave, 
Who lived to guide us, and who died to save ; 
Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled, 
And soul return'd to animate the dead ; 
Whom the waves own'd — a nd su nk beneath his eye. 
Awed by one accent of Divinity ; 
To Him she gave her meditative hours, 
Hallow'd her thoughts, and sanctified her powers. 
O'er her bright scenes sublime repose she threw, 
As all around the Godhead's presence knew. 
And robed the Holy One's benignant mien 
In beaming mercy, majesty serene. 

Oh! mark, where Raphael's pure and perfect line 
Portrays that form ineffably divine ! (0) 
Where with transcendent skill his hand has shed 
Dift'usive sunbeams rouml the Saviour's head; 
Each heaven-illumined lineament imbued 
With all the fullness of beatitude. 
And traced the sainted group, whose mortal sight 
Sinks overpower'd by th' excess of light ! 

Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art, 
By truth inspired to elevate the heart ! 
To bid the soul exultingly possess, 
Of all her powers, a heighten'd consciousness, 
And strong in hope, anticipate the day. 
The last of life, the first of freedom's ray; 
To realize, in some unclouded sphere. 
Those pictured glories feebly imaged here! 
Dim, cold reflections from her native sky. 
Paint effluence of " the Day-spring from on high 1" 



NOTES. 



The Belvldere Torso, the favourite study of Michael Angelo, and 
of many other distinguished artists. 

Note 2, 

" Quoique cette statue d'Hercule ait ete maltraitee et mutilee d'une 
maniere etrange, se Irouvant sans tete, sans bras, et sans jambes, elle 
est cependant encore uu chef-dceuvre aux yeux des connoisseurs ; et 
ceux qui savent percer dans !es niysteres de I'art, se la representent 
dans toute sa beaute. L'artlste, en voulant representer Hercule, a 
forme un corps ideal au-dessus de la nature. * * * Cet Hercule 
naroit done ici tel qu'il dut etre, lorsque, puritie iiar le feu des ibi- 
blesses de I'hunianite, il obtint I'inimortalite, et prit |ilace aiipres dos 
dieux. II est represente sans aucun besoin de uourrilure el de repa- 
rati()ii de forces. Les veines y sont toutes invisibles." — IViiickel' 
niann, Histoire de I'Art cliez les Jlncieiis, torn. ii. p. 248. 

Note 3. 

" Le Torso d'Hercule paroit un des derniers ouvrages parfaits que 
Part ait produil en Grece, avaut la i>erte de sa liberie. Car apres 
que !a Grece fut reduile en province Roniaine, I'histoire ne fail men- 
tion d'.iucuu artiste celebre de cette nation, juscj^u'aux lenips du Tri- 
umvirat Roniaiu.'' — IViiickebnaiin, ibid. torn. li. p. 260. 

Note 4. 
"It is not, in the same manner, in the agonized limbs, or in the 
convulsed muscles of the Laoconn, that the secret grace of its compo- 
sition resides; it is in the majestic air of the head, which has not 
yielded to siifferitt^^ and in the deep serenity of the forehead, wliich 
seems to be still «tpen'or to all its affiictiwis, and significant of a 
mind that cannot be subdued."—^// ison'i Essays^ vol. ii. p. 400. 

*'Laocoon nous off're le spectacle de la nature humaine dans la 
phis grande douleur dont elle soil susceptible, sous I'image d'homme 
ijui tache de rassembter contre elle toute la force de I'esprit. Tandis 
(lue Pexces de la soutfrance enfle les muscles, et tire viok-uinient les 
nerfs, le coura.^e se niontre sur le front gonfle : la poilrine sVleve 
avec peine par la necessite de la respiration, qui est ea;alenient con- 
trainte par le silence que la force de Pame impose a la douleur qu'elle 
voudroit etoufl'er. * * » Son air est plaintif, et non criard."— Jri/wfe- 
elmami, ibid. torn. ii. p. 214. 

Note 5. 

Almotana. The name given by the Arabs to the Dead Sea. 



The Transfiguration, thought to be sn perfect a specimen of art, 
that, in honour of Raphael, it was carried before his body to the 
grave. 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



53 



K^Ut$f m%'?$ ^iutmit ^tt%un. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 



tts Maure ne se venge pas parce que sa colere dure encore, mais, 
parce que la vengeance seule peut ecarler de sa tete le poids d'in- 
faniie dont il est accable.— II se venge, parce qu'a ses yeux il n'y a 
qu'une ame basse qui puisse pardonner les affronts ; et il nourrit 
sa rancune, parce que s'illa sentoit s'eteiudre, il croiroit avecelle 
avoir perdu une vertu. Sismoiidi. 



The events with which the following tale is interwoven, 
are related in the " Historia de las Guerras Civilos de 
Granada." They occurred in the reign of Abo Abdeli 
or Abdali, the last Moorish king of that city, called by 
the Spaniards K Rey Chico. The conquest of Grana- 
da, by Ferdinand and Isabella, is said, by some histo- 
rians, to have been greatly facilitated by the Abencer- 
rages, whose defection was the result of the repeated 
injuries they had received from the king at the instiga- 
tion of the Zegris. One of the most beautiful halls of 
the Alhambra is pointed out as the scene where so 
many of the former celebrated tribe were massacred ; 
and it still retains their name, being called the "Sala 
de los Abencerrages." Many of the most interesting 
old Spanish ballads relate to the events of this chival- 
rous and romantic period. 



CANTO I. 

Lonely and still are now thy marble halls, 
Thou fair Alhambra ! there the feast is o'er, 

And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls. 
Blend the wild notes of minstrelsy no more. 

Hush'd are the voices, that, in years gone by. 
Have mourn'd, exulted, menaced, through thy 
towers; 

Within thy pillar'd courts the grass waves high. 
And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers. 

Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows. 
Through tall arcades unmark'd the sunbeam 
smiles. 

And many a tint of soften'd brilliance throws. 
O'er fretted wails, and shining peristyles. 

And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone. 
So vast, so silent, and so wildly fair. 

Some charm'd abode of beings all unknown. 
Powerful and viewless, children of the air. 

For there no footstep treads the enchanted ground, 
There not a sound the deep repose pervades, 

Save winds and founts dilfusing freshness round, 
Through the light domes and graceful colonnades. 

Far other tones have swell'd those courts along, 
In days romance yet fondly loves to trace ; 

The clash of arms, the voice of choral song, 
The revels, combats, of a vanish'd race. 

And yet awhile, at Fancy's potent call. 
Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold! 

Peopling once more each fair, forsaken hall. 
With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of old. 

— The sun declines — upon Nevada's height 
There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light ; 
Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow 
Smiles in the richness of that parting glow, 
And Darro's wave reflects each passing dye 
That melts and mingles in th' empurpled sky. 
Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower, 
Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour : 



Hush'd are the winds, and Nature seems to sleep, 
In light and stillness; wood, and tower, and steep, 
Are dyed with tints of glory, only given 
To the rich evening of a southern heaven ; 
Tints of the sun, whose bright farewell is fraught. 
With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught. 
— Yes, Nature sleeps ; but not with her at rest 
The fiery passions of the human breast. 
Hark ! from the Alhambra's towers what stormy 

sound, 
Each moment deepening, wildly swells around ? 
Those are no tumults of a festal throng. 
Not the light zambra, (1) nor the choral song ; 
The combat rages — 't is the shout of war, 
'Tis the loud clash of shield and scymetar. 
Within the Hall of Lions, (2) where the rays 
Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze ; 
There, girt and guarded by his Zegri bands. 
And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands. 
There the strife centres — swords around him wave, 
There bleed the fallen, there contend the brave. 
While echoing domes return the battle-cry, 
" Revenge and Freedom !— let the tyrant die I " 
And onward rushing, and prevailing still. 
Court, hall, and tower the fierce avengers fill. 

But first and bravest of that gallant train, 
Where foes are mightiest, charging ne'er in vain; 
In his red hand the sabre glancing bright. 
His dark eye flashing with a fiercer light. 
Ardent, untired, scarce conscious that he bleeds, 
His Aben-Zurrahs (3) there young Hamet leads ; 
While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high, 
"Revenge and freedom ! — let the tyrant die!" 

Yes, trace the footsteps of the warrior's wrath, 
By helm and corslet shatter'd in his path ; 
And by the thickest harvest of the slain. 
And by the marble's deepest crimson stain : 
Search through the serried fight, where loudest 

cries 
From triumph, anguish, or despair arise; 
And brightest where the shivering falchions glare. 
And vi'here the ground is reddest — he is there. 
Yes, that young arm, amidst the Zegri host, 
Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost. 
They perish'd — not as heroes should have died, 
On the red field in victory's hour of pride, 
In all the glow and sunshine of their fame. 
And proudly smiling, as the death-pang came; 
Oh ! had they thus e,xpired, a warrior's tear 
Had flow'd almost in triumph, o'er their bier. 
For thus alone the brave should weep for those 
Who brightly pass in glory to repose. 
—Not such their fate— a tyrant's stern command 
Doom'd them to fall by some ignoble hand. 
As, with the flower of all their high-born race, 
Summon'd Abdallah's royal feast to grace. 
Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh, 
They sought the banquet's gilded hall— to die. 
Betray'd, unarm'd, they fell— the fountain wave 
Flow'd crimson with the life-blood of the brave. 
Till far the fearful tidings of their fate 
Through the wide city rung from gate to gate. 
And of that lineage each surviving son 
Rush'd to the scene where vengeance might be 
won. 

For this young Hamet mingles in the strife, 
Leader of battle, prodigal of life, 
Urging his followers, till their foes, beset. 
Stand faint and breathless, hut undaunted yet. 
Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on! one effort more. 
Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o'er. 

But lo! descending o'er the darken'd hall. 
The twilight shadows fast and deeply fall, 
Nor yet the strife hath ceased— tho' scarce they 

know. 
Through that thick gloom, the brother from the foe ; 



54 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray, 

The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay. 

Where lurks Abdallah? — 'midst his yielding 
train 
They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain : 
He lies not number'd with the valiant dead. 
His champions round him have not vainly bled ; 
But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil, 
And his last warriors found each effort fail, 
In wild despair he fled— a trusted few. 
Kindred in crime, are still in danger true ; 
And o'er the scene of many a martial deed. 
The Vega's (4) green expanse, his flying footsteps 

lead. 
He pass'd th' Alhambra's calm and lovely bowers. 
Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flow- 
ers 
In dew and starlight — there from grot and cave, 
Gush'd in wild music many a sparkling wave ; 
There, on each breeze, the breath of fragrance rose. 
And all was freshness, beauty, and repose. 

But thou, dark monarch! in thy bosom reign 
Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again. 
Oh! vainly bright is nature in the course 
Of him who flies from terror or remorse ! 
A spell is round him which obscures her bloom. 
And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb; 
There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair. 
But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there. 
Abdallah heeds not though the light gale roves 
Fraught with rich odour, stolen from orange- 
groves. 
Hears not the sounds from wood and brook that 

rise. 
Wild notes of nature's vesper melodies; 
Marks not, how lovely, on the mountain's head. 
Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread; 
But urges onward, till his weary band. 
Worn with their toil, a moment's pause demand. 
He stops, and turning on Granada's fanes 
In silence gazing, fix'd awhile remains; 
In stern, deep silence — o'er his feverish brow. 
And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly flow, 
But waft, in fitful murmurs from afar. 
Sounds, indistinctly fearful — as of war. 
What meteor bursts, with sudden blaze, on high. 
O'er the blue clearness of the starry sky ? 
Awful it rises like some Genie-form, 
Seen 'midst the redness of the desert storm, (5) 
Magnificently dread — above, below. 
Spreads the wild splendour of its deepening glow. 
Lo! from the Alhambra's towers the vivid glare 
Streams through the still transparence of the air; 
Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre. 
Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire ; 
And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height, 
From dim perspective start to ruddy light. 

Oh Heaven! the anguish of Abdallah's soul. 
The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control ! 
Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly 
For life— such life as makes it bliss to die! 
On yon green height, the mosque, but half reveal'd 
Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield. 
Thither his steps are bent — yet oft he turns, 
Watching that fearful beacon as it burns. 
But paler grow the sinking flames at last. 
Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past. 
And spiry vapours rising o'er the scene, 
Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been. 
And now his feet have reach'd that lonely pile. 
Where grief and terror may repose awhile ; 
Erabower'd it stands, 'midst wood and cliff on high. 
Through the gray rocks a torrent sparkling nigh ; 
He hails the scene where every care should cease, 
And all — except the heart he brings— is peace. 

There is deep stillness in those halls of state. 
Where the loud cries of conflict rung so late ! 
Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin's blast 
Hath o'er the dwellings of the desert pass'd. (6) 
Fearful the calm — nor voice, nor step, nor breath 
Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death: 
Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound. 
Save the wild gush of waters— murmuring round, 



In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone, 
Through chambers peopled by the dead alone. 
O'er the mosaic floors, with carnage red, 
Breastplate and shield, and cloven helm are spread 
In mingled fragments — glittering to the light 
Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright, 
Their streaming lustre tremulously shed. 
And smile, in placid beauty, o'er the dead ; 
O'er features, where the fiery spirit's trace, 
E'en death itself is powerless to efface', 
O'er those who, flush'd with ardent youth, awoke. 
When glowing morn in bloom and radiance broke. 
Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep, < 
Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep, 
In the low silent house, the narrow spot, 
Home of forgetfulness, and soon forgot. 

But slowly fade the stars— the night is o'er — 
Morn beams on those who hail her light no more; 
Slumberers, who ne'er shall wake on earth again, 
Mourners, who call'd the loved, the lost, in vain. 
Yet smiles the day — Oh I not for mortal tear 
Doth nature deviate from her calm career, 
Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair, 
Though breaking hearts her gladness may not 

share. 
O'er the cold urn the beam of summer glows, 
O'er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows ; 
Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below, 
And skies arch cloudless o'er a world of woe. 
And flowers renew'd in spring's green pathway 

bloom. 
Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb. 

Within Granada's walls the funeral rite 
Attends that day of loveliness and light ; 
And many a chief, with dirges and with tears, 
Is gather'd to the brave of other years ; 
And Hamet, as beneath the cypress shade 
His martyr'd brother and his sire are laid. 
Feels every deep resolve, and burning thought 
Of ampler vengeance, e'en to passion wrought; 
Yet is the hour afar — and he must brood 
O'er those dark dreams awhile in solitude. 
Tumult and rage are hush'd— another day 
In still solemnity hath pass'd away, 
In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath. 
The calm that follows in the tempest's path. 

And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane. 
His ravaged city traversing again. 
No sound of gladness his approach precedes. 
No splendid pageant the procession leads ; 
Where'er he moves the silent streets along. 
Broods a stern quiet o'er the sullen throng ; | 

No voice is heard — but in each alter'd eye, 
Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh, 
And in each look of those whose love hath fled 
From all on earth, to slumber with the dead. 
Those, by his guilt made desolate, and thrown 
On the bleak wilderness of life alone. 
In youth's quick glance of scarce dissembled rage, 
And the pale mien of calmly-mournful age, 
May well be read a dark and fearful tale 
Of thought that ill th' indignant heart can veil, 
And passion, like the hush'd volcano's power, 
That waits in stillness its appointed hour. 

No more the clarion, from Granada's walls 
Heard o'er the Vega, to the tourney calls ; 
No more her graceful daughters, throned on high, 
Bend o'er the lists the darkly radiant eye ; 
Silence and gloom her palaces o'erspread, 
And song is hush'd, and pageantry is fled. 
— Weep, fated city ! o'er thy heroes weep — 
Low in the dust the sons of glory sleep; 
Furl'd are their banners in the lonely hall. 
Their ti-ophiedshieldshang mouldering on the wall. 
Wildly their chargers range the pastures o'er. 
Their voice in battle shall be heard no more ; 
And they, who still thy tyrant's wrath survive. 
Whom he hath wrong'd too deeply to forgive, 
That race, of lineage high, of worth approved. 
The chivalrous, the princely, the beloved ; 
Thine Aben-Zurrahs — they no more shall wield 
In thy proud cause, the conquering lance and shield: 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



55 



Condemn'd to bid the cherish'd scenes farewell 
Where the loved ashes of their fathers dwell, 
And far o'er foreign plains, as exiles, roam, 

i Their land the desert, and the grave their home. 
Yet there is one shall see that race depart, 

- In deep, though silent, agony of heart ; 
One whose dark fate must be to mourn alone. 
Unseen her sorrows, and their cause unknown, 
And veil her heart, and teach her clieek to wear 
That smile, in which the spirit hath no share ; 
Like the bright beams that shed their fruitless glow 
O'er the cold solitude of Alpine snow. 

Soft, fresh, and silent, is the midnight hour, 
And the young Zayda seeks her lonely bower; 
That Zegri maid within whose gentle mind 
One name is deeply, secretly enshrined. 
That name in vain stern reason would efface, 
Haniet ! 'tis thine, thou foe to all her race 1 

And yet not hers in bitterness to prove 
The sleepless pangs of unrequited love ; 
Pangs, which the rose of wasted youth consume, 
And make the heart of all delight the tomb, 
Check the free spirit in its eagle-flight. 
And the spring-morn of early genius blight ; 
Not such her grief— though now she wakes to weep, 
While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-devi's of 
sleep. (7) 

A step treads lightly through the citron-shade, 
Lightly, but by the rustling leaves betray'd— 
Doth her young hero seek that well-known spot, 
Scene of past hours that ne'er may be forgot ? 
'T is he — but changed that eye, whose glance of fire 
Could, like a sunbeam, hope and joy inspire, 
As, luminous with youth, with ardour fraught, 
It spoke of glory to the inmost thought ; 
Thence the bright spirit's eloquence hath fled, 
And in its wild expression may be read 
Stern thoughts and fierce resolves — now veil'd in 

shade, 
And now in characters of fire portray'd. 
Changed e'en his voice — as thus its mournful tone 
Wakes in her heart each feeling of his own. 

" Zayda, my doom is fix'd — another day, 
And the wrong'd exile shall be far away ; 
Far from the scenes where still his heart must be, 
His home of youth, and, more than all — from thee. 
Oh ! what a cloud hath gather'd o'er my lot. 
Since last we met on this fair tranquil spot ! 
Lovely as then, the soft and silent hour. 
And not a rose hath faded from thy bower ; 
But I — my hopes the tempest hath o'erthrown, 
And changed my heart, to all but thee alone. 
Farewell, high thoughts ! inspiring hopes of praise, 
Heroic visions of my early days ! 
In me the glories of my race must end, 
The exile hath no country to defend ! 
E'en in life's morn, my dreams of pride are o'er, 
Youth's buoyant spirit wakes for me no more, 
And one wild feeling in my alter'd breast 
Broods darkly o'er the ruins of the rest. 
Yet fear not thou — to thee, in good or ill, 
The heart, so sternly tried, is faithful still I 
But when my steps are distant, and my name 
Thou liear'st no longer in the song of fame, 
When Time steals on, in silence to efface 
Of early love each pure and sacred trace, 
Causing our sorrows and our hopes to seem 
But as the moonlight pictures of a dream. 
Still shall thy soul be with me in the truth, 
And all the fervour of aflfection's youth? 
— If such thy love, one beam of heaven shall play 
In lonely beauty, o'er thy wanderer's way." 

" Ask not, if such my love ! oh ! trust the mind 
To grief so long, so silently resign'd ! 
Let the light spirit, ne'er by sorrow taught 
The pure and lofty constancy of thought, 
Its fleeting trials eager to forget, 
Rise with elastic power o'er each regret ! 
Foster'd in tears, our young affection grew, 
And I have learn'd to suffer and be true. 
No ! 'tis the child of tempests, and defies, 
And meets unchanged, the anger of the skies ! 



Too well I feel, with griefs prophetic heart, 

That ne'er to meet in happier days, we part. 

We part ! and e'en this agonizing hour, 

When Love first feels his own o'erwhelming power, 

Shall soon to Memory's fix'd and tearful eye 

Seem almost happiness — for thou wert nigh ! 

Yes ! when this heart in solitude shall bleed, 

As days to days all wearily succeed. 

When doom'd to weep in loneliness, 't will be 

Almost like rapture to have wept with thee. 

" But thou, my Hamet, thou canst yet bestow 
All that of joy my blighted lot can know. 
Oh ! be thou still the high-soul'd and the brave, 
To whom my first and fondest vows I gave, 
In thy proud fame's untarnish'd beauty, still 
The lofty visions of my youth fiilfil, 
So shall it soothe me 'midst my heart's despair, 
To hold undimm'd one glorious image there !" 

" Zayda, my best-beloved ! my words too well, 
Too soon, thy bright illusions must dispel; 
Yet must my soul to thee unveil'd be shown, 
And all its dreams and all its passions known. 
Thou shalt not be deceived— for pure as heaven 
Is thy young love, in faith and fervour given. 
I said my heart was changed — and would thy 

thought 
Explore the ruin by thy kindred wrought, 
In fancy trace the land whose towers and fanes, 
Crush'd by the earthquake, strevy its ravaged plains, 
And such that heart — where desolation's hand 
Hath blighted all that once was fair or grand ! 
But Vengeance, fix'd upon her burning throne, 
Sits 'midst the wreck in silence and alone, 
And I, in stern devotion at her shrine, 
Each softer feeling, but my love, resign. 
— Yes ! they whose spirits all my thoughts control. 
Who hold dread converse with my thrilling soul; 
They, the betray'd, the sacrificed, the brave, 
Who fill a blood-stain'd and untimely grave, 
Must be avenged ! and pity and remorse, 
In that stern cause, are banish'd from my course. 
Zayda, thou tremblest — and thy gentle breast 
Shrinks from the passions that destroy my rest; 
Yet shall thy form, in many a stormy hour. 
Pass brightly o'er my soul with softening power. 
And, oft recall'd, thy voice beguile my lot. 
Like some sweet lay, once heard, and ne'er forgot, 

" But the night wanes— the hours too swiftly fly. 
The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh: 
Yet, loved one ! weep not thus — in joy or pain. 
Oh ! trust thy Hamet, we shall meet again ! 
Yes, we shall meet ! and haply smile at last . 
On all the clouds and conflicts of the past. 
On that fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell. 
Nor deem these mingling tears our last farewell I" 

Is the voice hush'd, whose loved, expressive tone 
Thrill'd to her heart, and doth she weep alone 1 
Alone she weeps— that hour of parting o'er — 
When shall the pang it leaves be felt no more 1 
The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fair. 
Showering the dewy rose-leaves o'er her hair; 
But ne'er for her shall dwell reviving power. 
In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower. 
To wake once more, that calm, serene delight, 
The soul's young bloom, which passion's breath 

could blight ; 
The smiling stillness of life's morning-hour, 
Ere yet the day-star burns in-all his power. 
Meanwhile through groves of deep luxuriant shade. 
In the rich foliage of the south array'd, 
Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day, 
Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way. 
Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave 
On high o'er many an Aben-Zurrah's grave, 
Lonely and fair — its fresh and glittering leaves, 
With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves. 
To canopy the dead— nor wanting there 
Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air. 
Nor wood-bird's note, nor fall of plaintive stream,^ 
Wild music, soothing to the mourner's dream. 
Deem not ray love a frail ephemeral flower, 
Nursed by soft sunshine and the balmy shower; 



56 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS 



There sleep the chiefs of old — their combats o'er, 
The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more ! 
Unheard by them th' awakening clarion blows ; 
The sons of war at length in peace repose. 
No martial note is in the gale that sighs, 
Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise, 
'Mid founts, and shades, and flowers of brightest 

bloom. 
As, in his native vale, some shepherd's tomb. 

There, where the trees their thickest foliage 

spread 
Dark o'er that silent valley of the dead. 
Where two fair pillars rise, embower'd and lone. 
Not yet with ivy clad, with moss o'ergrown. 
Young Hamet kneels— while thus his vows are 

pour'd. 
The fearful vows that consecrate his sword. 
— "Spirit of him, who first within my mind 
Each loftier aim, each nobler thought enshrined. 
And taught my steps the line of light to trace, 
Left by the glorious fathers of my race. 
Hear thou my voice— for thine is with me still, 
In every dream its tones my bosom thrill, 
In the deep calm of midnight they are near, 
'Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my ear. 
Still murmuring " vengeance!"— nor in vain the 

call. 
Few, few shall triumph in a hero's fall I 
Cold as thine own to glory and to fame, 
Within my heart there lives one only aim ; 
There, till th' oppressor for thy fate atone, 
Concentring every thought, it reigns alone. 
I will not weep — revenge, not grief, must be. 
And blood, not tears, an offering meet for thee ; 
But the dark hour of stern delight will come, 
And thou shall triumph, warrior 1 in thy tomb. 

" Thou, too, my brother ! thou art pass'd away. 
Without thy fame, in life's fair dawning day: 
Son of the brave ! of thee no trace will shine 
In the proud annals of thy lofty line. 
Nor shall thy deeds be deathless in the lays. 
That hold communion with the after-days. 
Yet by the wreaths thou might'st have nobly won 
Hadst thou but lived till rose thy noontide sun, 
By glory lost, I swear, by hope betray'd. 
Thy fate shall amply, dearly, be repaid ; 
War with thy foes I deem a holy strife. 
And to avenge thy death, devote my life. 

" Hear ye my vows, oh spirits of the slain ! 
Hear and be with me on the battle-plain ! 
At noon, at midnight, still around me bide. 
Rise on my dreams, and tell me how ye died !" 



CANTO II. 



Oh ! ben provvide il Cielo, 

Ch' uom per aelitti mai lieto non a 



MfitA 



Fair land ! of chivalry the old domain. 
Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain ! 
Though not for thee with classic shores to vie 
In charms that fix'd the enthusiast's pensive eye. 
Yet hast thou scenes of beauty richly fraught 
With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought ; 
Fountains and vales, and rocks, whose ancient 

name 
High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame. 
Those scenes are peaceful now : the citron blows, 
Wild spreads the myrtle, where the brave repose. 
No sound of battle swells on Douro's shore 
And banners wave on Ebro's banks no more. 
But who, unmoved, iinawed, shall coldly tread 
Thy fields that sepulchre the mighty dead ? 
Blest be that soil I where England's heroes share 
The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there; 
Whose names are glorious in romantic lays. 
The wild sweet chronicles of elder days, 
By goatherd lone, and rude serrana sung. 
Thy cypress dells, and vine-clad rocks among. 



How oft those rocks have echo'd to the tale 
Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles' vale ', 
Of him, renown'd in old heroic lore. 
First of the brave, the gallant Campeador ; 
Of those the famed in song, who proudly died. 
When " Rio Verde" roll'd a crimson tide : 
Or that high name, by Garcilaso's might. 
On the green Vega won in single fight. (8) 

Round fair Granada, deepening from afar, 
O'er that green Vega rose the din of war. 
At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone 
O'er a calm scene in pastoral beauty lone ; 
On helm and corslet tremulous they glanced. 
On shield and spear in quivering lustre danced. 
Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove. 
Tents rose around, and banners glanced above. 
And steeds in gorgeous trappings, armour bright 
With gold reflecting every tint of light. 
And many a floating plume, and blazon'd shield, 
Dift'used romantic splendour o'er the field. 

There swell those sounds that bid the life-blood 
start 
Swift to the mantling cheek, and beating heart. 
The clang of echoing steel, the charger's neigh. 
The measured tread of hosts in war's array ; 
And oh! that music, whose exulting breath 
Speaks but of glory on the road to death; 
In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power 
To wake the stormy joy of danger's hour. 
To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain. 
Rouse from despondence, and support in pain. 
And, 'midst the deepening tumults of the strife, 
Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life. 

High o'er the camp, in many a broider'd fold, 
Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold: 
There imaged on the cross, his form appears. 
Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears. (9) 
His form, whose word recall'd the spirit, fled. 
Now borne by hosts to guide them o'er the dead! 
O'er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high, 
Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry. 
Fired with that ardour, which, in days of yore. 
To Syrian plains the bold Crusaders bore ; 
Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal, 
They come, the gallant children of Castile ; 
The proud, the calmly dignified : — and there 
Ebro's dark sons with haughty mien repair. 
And those who guide the fiery steed of war 
From yon rich province of the western star. (10) 

But thou, conspicuous 'midst the glittering scene, 
Stern grandeur stamp'd upon thy princely mien ; 
Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest. 
The snow-white charger, and the azure crest, (11) 
Young Aben-Zurrah ! 'midst that host of foes. 
Why shinesiA?/ helm, thy Moorishlance? Disclose! 
Why rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train, 
Oh son of Afric, 'midst the sons of Spain ? 
Hast thou with these thy nation's fall conspired. 
Apostate chief ! by hope of vengeance fired? 
How art thou changed ! Still first in every fight, 
Hamet, the Moor! Castile's devoted knight! 
There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye, 
But not the light that shone in days gone by ; 
There is wild ardour in thy look and tone. 
But not the soul's expression once thine own. 
Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say 
What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may 

sway ? 
No eye but Heaven's may pierce that curtain'd 

breast. 
Whose joys and griefs alike are unexprest. 

There hath been combat on the tented plain ; 
The Vega's turf is red with many a stain, 
And rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield, 
Tell of a fierce and well-contested field ; 
But all is peaceful now — the west is bright 
With the rich splendour of departing light ; 
Mulhacen's peak, half lost amidst the sky, 
Glows like a purple evening-cloud on high. 
And tints, that mock the pencil's art, o'erspread 
Th' eternal snow that crowns Veleta's head, (12) 
While the warm sunset o'er the landscape throws 
A solemn beauty, and a deep repose. 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



57 



Closed are the toils and tumults of the day. 
And Hamet wanders from the camp away, 
In silent musings rapt: — the slanghter'd brave 
Lie thickly strewn by Darro's rippling wave. 
Soft fall the dews— but other drops have dyed 
The scented shrubs that fringe the river-side. 
Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired. 
The wounded sought a shelter — and expired. (13) 
Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days, 
By the bright windings of the stream he strays. 
Till, more remote from battle's ravaged scene. 
All is repose, and solitude serene. 
There, 'neath an olive's ancient shade reclined. 
Whose rustling foliage waves in evening's wind, 
The harass'd warrior, yielding to the power. 
The mild, sweet influence of the tranquil hour, 
Feels, by degrees, a long-forgotten calm 
Shed o'er his troubled soul unwonted balm; 
His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot. 
The past, the future, are awhile forgot ; 
And Hope, scarce own'd, yet stealing o'er his 

breast. 
Half dares to whisper, " Thou shalt yet be blest !" 

Such his vague musings — but a plaintive sound 
Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round ; 
A low half-stifled moan, that seems to rise 
From life and death's contending agonies. 
He turns: Who shares with him that lonely shade? 
— A youthful warrior on his death-bed laid. 
All rent and stain'd his broider'd Moorish vest. 
The corslet shatter'd on his bleeding breast ! 
In his cold hand the broken falchion strain'd 
With life's last force convulsively retain'd ; 
His plumage soil'd with dust, with crimson dyed. 
And the red lance, in fragments, by his side ; 
He lies forsaken — pillow'd on his shield, 
His helmet raised, his lineaments reveal'd. 
Pale is that quivering lip, and vanished now 
The light once throned on that commanding brow ; 
And o'er that fading eye, still upward cast, 
The shades of death are gathering dark and fast. 
Yet, as yon rising moon her light serene 
Sheds the pale olive's waving boughs between. 
Too well can Hamet's conscious heart retrace. 
Though changed thus fearfully that pallid face, 
Whose every feature to his soul conveys 
Some bitter thought of long-departed days. 

" Oh ! is it thus," he cries, "we meet at last? 
Friend of my soul, in years for ever past ! 
Hath fate but led me hither to behold 
The last dread struggle ere that heart is cold, 
Receive thy latest agonizing breath. 
And, with vain pity, soothe the pangs of death? 
Yet let me bear thee hence — while life remains. 
E'en though thus feebly circling through thy veins, 
Some healing balm thy sense may still revive, 
Hope is not lost, — and Osmyn yet may live 1 
And blest were he, whose timely care should save 
A heart so noble, e'en from glory's grave." 

Roused by those accents, from his lowly bed 
The dying warrior faintly lifts his head ; 
O'er Hamet's mien, with vague, uncertain gaze, 
His doubtful glance awhile bewilder'd strays ; 
Till, by degrees, a smile of proud disdain 
Lights up those features late convulsed with pain ; 
A quivering radiance flashes from his eye. 
That seems too pure, too full of soul, to die ; 
And the mind's grandeur in its parting hour 
Looks from that brow with more than wonted 
power. 

" Away !" he cries, in accents of command. 
And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand, 
" Apostate, hence! my soul shall soon be free, 
E'en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee : 
'Tis not for thee to close the fading eyes 
Of him who faithful to his country dies; 
Not for thy hand to raise the drooping head 
Of him who sinks to rest on glory's bed. 
Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict o'er. 
And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar : 
Be thine existence with a blighted name, 
Mine the bright death which seals a warrior's 
fame !" 



The glow hath vanish'd from his cheek— his eye 
Hath lost that beam of parting energy ; 
Frozen and fix'd it seems — his brow is chill ; 
One struggle more,— that noble heart i's still. 
Departed warrior! were thy mortal throes, 
Were thy last pangs, ere nature found repose. 
More keen, more bitter, tlian th' envenom'd dart 
Thy dying words have left in Hamet's heart ! 
Thy pangs were transient ; his shall sleep no more 
Till life's delirious dream itself is o'er; 
But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave 
Be the pure altar of the patriot brave. 
Oh, what a change that little hour hath wrought 
In the high spirit and unbending thought ! 
Yet, from himself each keen regret lo hide. 
Still Hamet struggles with indignant pride; 
While his soul rises gathering all its force. 
To meet the fearful confiiet with remorse. 

To thee, at length, whose artless love hath been 
His own, unchanged, through many a stormy 

scene ; 
Zayda ! to thee his heart for refuge flies ; 
Thou still art faithful to affection's ties. 
Yes ! let the world upbraid, let foes contemn, 
Thy gentle breast the tide will firmly stem ; 
And soon thy smile, and soft consoling voice, 
Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice. 

Within Granada's walls are hearts and hands, 
Whose aid iii secret Hamet yet commands; 
Nor hard the task at some propitious hour, 
To win his silent way to Zayda's bower. 
When night and peace are brooding o'er the world, 
When mute the clarions, and the banners furl'd. 
That hour is come — and o'er the arms he bears 
A wandering fakir's garb the chieftain wears: 
Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hitie 
The lofty port, and glance of martial pride ; 
But night befriends — through paths obscure he 

pass'd, 
And hail'd the lone and lovely scene at last ; 
Young Zayda's chosen haunt, the fair alcove. 
The sparkling fountain, and the orange-grove ; 
Calm in the moonlight smiles the still retreat, 
As form'd alone for happy hearts to meet. 
For happy hearts? — not such is hers, who there 
Bends o'er her lute, with dark, unbraided hair ; 
That maid of Zegri race, whose eye, whose mien, 
Tell that despair her bosom's guest hath been. 
So lost in thought she seems, the warrior's feet 
Unheard approach her solitary seat, 
Till his known accents every sense restore — 
" My own loved Zayda ! do we meet once more ?" 

She starts, she turns — the lightning of surprise, 
Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eyes : 
But that is fleeting — it is past — and now 
Far other meaning darkens o'er her brow; 
Changed is her aspect, and her tone severe — 
"Hence, Aben-Zurrah! death surrounds thee here!" 

" Zayda ! what means that glance, unlike thine 

own ? 
What mean those words, and that unwonted tone? 
I will not deem thee changed— but in thy face, 
It is not joy, it is not love, I trace ! 
It was not thus in other days we met: 
Hath time, hath absence taught thee to forget ? 
Oh ! speak once more — these rising doubts dispel. 
One smile of tenderness, and all is well!" 

" Not thus we met in other days !" — oh no ! 
Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country's foe ? 
Those days are past — we ne'er shall meet again 
With hearts all warmth, all confidence, as then. 
But thy dark soul no gentler feelings sway f 
Leader of hostile bands! away, away ! 
On in thy path of triumph and of power. 
Nor pause to raise from earth a blighted flower." 

" And thou too changed! thine early vow forgot I 
This, this alone, was wanting to my lot ! 
Exiled and scorn'd, of every tie bereft, 
Thy love, the desert's lonely fount, was left ; 
And thou, my soul's last hope, its lingering beam, 
Thou, the good angel of each brighter dream, 



58 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



Wert all the barrenness of life possest, 
To wake one soft affection in my breast ! 
That vision ended— faith hath naught in store. 
Of joy or sorrow, e'er to touch me more. 
Go, Zegri maid ! to scenes of sunshine fly, 
From the stern pupil of adversity ! 
And now to hope, to confidence adieu! 
If thou art faithless, who shall e'er be true V 

" Hamet ! oh wrong me not !— I too could speak 
Of sorrows — trace them ou ray faded cheek, 
In the sunk eye, and in the wasted form, 
That tell the heart hath nursed a canker-worm ! 
But words were idle — read my sufferings there, 
Wiiere grief is stamp'd on all that once was fair. 

" Oh, wert thou still what once I fondly deem'd, 
All that thy mien expressed, thy spirit seera'd, 
My love had been devotion— till in death 
Thy name had trembled on my latest breath. 
But not the chief who leads a lawless band, 
To crush the altars of his native land ; 
Th' apostate son of heroes, vs'hose disgrace 
Hath stain'd the trophies of a glorious race; 
Not him I loved — but one whose youthful name 
Was pure and radiant in unsullied fame. 
Hadsl thou but died, ere yet dishonour's cloud 
O'er that young name had galher'd as a shroud, 
I then had mourn'd thee proudly— and my grief 
In its own loftiness had found relief; 
A noble sorrow, cherish'd to the last. 
When every meaner woe had long been past. 
Yes ! let Atfection weep — no common tear 
She sheds, when bonding o'er a hero's bier. 
Let Nature mourn the dead— a grief like this. 
To pangs that rend my bosom had been bliss !" 

"High-minded maid! the time admits not now 
To plead my cause, to vindicate my vow. 
That vow, too dread, too solemn to recall, 
Hath urged me onward, haply to my fall. 
Yet this believe — no meaner aim inspires 
My soul, no dream of poor ambition fires. 
No ! every hope of power, of triumph, fled, 
Behold me but th' avenger of the dead ! 
One whose changed heart no tie, no kindred knows. 
And in thy love alone hath sought repose. 
Zayda, wilt thou his stern accuser be ? 
False to his country, he is true to thee ! 
Oh, hear me yet ! — if Hamet e'er was dear. 
By our first vows, our young aftection, hear ! 
Soon must this fair and royal city fall. 
Soon shall the cross be planted on her wall ! 
Then who can tell what tides of blood may flow, 
While her fanes echo to the shrieks of woe ? 
Fly, fly with me, and let me bear thee far 
From horrors thronging in the path of war: 
Fly ! and repose in safety — till the blast 
Hath made a desert in its course— and past." 

"Thou that wilt triumph when the hour is come, 
Hasten'd by thee, to seal thy country's doom. 
With tliee from scenes of death shall Zayda fly 
To peace and safety ? — Woman too can die ! 
And die e.xulting, though unknown to fame, 
In all the stainless beauty of her name ! 
Be mine unmurmuring, undismay'd to share 
The fate my kindred and my sire must bear. 
And deem thou not my feeble heart shall fail. 
When the clouds gather, and the blasts assail ; 
Thou hast but known me ere the trying hour 
Call'd into life my spirit's latent power ; 
But I have energies that idly slept. 
While withering o'er my silent woes I wept. 
And now, when hope and happiness are fled, 
My soul is firm— for what remains to dread? 
Who shall have power to suffer and to bear. 
If strength and courage dwell not with Despair? 

"Hamet, farewell!— retrace thy path again, 
To join thy brethren on the tented plain. 
There wave and wood, in mingled murmurs, tell, 
How, in far other cause, thy fathers fell I 
Yes ! on that soil hath Glory's footstep beet), 
Names unforgotten consecrate the scene. 



Dwell not the souls of heroes round thee there, 
Whose voices call thee in the whispering air? 
Unheard, in vain, they call — their fallen son 
Hath stain'd the name those mighty spirits won, 
And to the hatred of the brave and free 
Bequeath'd his own, through ages yet to be !" 

Still as she spoke, th' enthusiast's kindling eye 
Was lighted up with inborn majesty, 
Wliile her fair form and youthful features caught 
All the proud grandeur of heroic thought. 
Severely beauteous! (14) awe-struck and amazed. 
In silent trance awhile the warrior gazed 
As on some lofty vision — for she seem'd 
One all inspired — each look with glory beam'd. 
While brightly bursting through its cloud of woes. 
Her soul at once in all its light arose. 
Oh! ne'er had Hamet deem'd there dwelt enshrined, 
In form so fragile, that unconquer'd mind. 
And fix'd. as by some high enchantment, there 
He stood — till wonder yielded to despair. 

"The dream is vanish'd — daughter of my foes! 
Reft of each hope, the lonely wanderer goes. 
Thy words have pierced his soul — yet deem thou 

not 
Thou couldst be once adored, and e'er forgot ! 
O form'd for happier love ! heroic maid! 
In grief sublime, in danger undismay'd. 
Farewell, and be thou blest ! — all words were vain 
For him who ne'er may view that form again ; 
Him, whose sole thought, resembling bliss, must be 
He hatk been loved, once fondly loved, by thee !" 

And is the warrior gone? — doth Zayda hear 
His parting footstep, and without a tear? 
Thou weep'st not, lofty maid? — yet who can tell 
What secret pangs within thy heart may dwell? 
They feel not least, the firm, the high in soul, 
Who best each feeling's agony control. 
Yes ! we may judge the measure of the grief 
Which finds in Misery's eloquence relief;. 
But who shall pierce those depths of silent woe, 
Whence breathes no language, whence no tesira 

may flow? 
The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved, 
Scorning itself that thus it could be moved? 
He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows. 
Views all its weakness, pities all its throes. 
He who hath mercy when mankind contemn. 
Beholding anguish— all unknown to them. 

Fair city! thou, that 'midst thy stately fanes. 
And gilded minarets, towering oer the plains 
In eastern grandeur proudly dost arise 
Beneath thy canopy of deep-blue skies. 
While streams that bear thee treasures in their 

wave, (15) 
Thy citron-groves and myrtle-gardens lave; 
Mourn ! for thy doom is fix'd — the days of fear, 
Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near! 
Within, around thee are the tropliied graves 
Of kings and chiefs — their children shall be slaves. 
Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell, 
But there a race that rear'd them not shall dwell : 
For 'midst thy counsels Discord still presides. 
Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides. 
Last of a line whose regal spirit flown 
Hath to their offspring but bequeath'd a throne, 
Without one generous thought, or feeling high. 
To teach his soul how kings should live and die. 

A voice resounds within Granada's wall. 
The hearts of warriors echo to its call. (16) 
Whose are those tones with power electric fraught. 
To reach the source of pure, exalted thought ? 

See on a fortress-tower, with beckoning hand, 
A form, majestic as a prophet, stand ! 
His mien is all impassion'd — and his eye 
Fill'd with a light whose fountain is on high; 
Wild on the gale his silvery tresses flow, 
And inspiration beams upon his brow. 
While, thronging round him, breathless thousands 

gaze. 
As on some mighty seer of elder days. 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



59 



" Saw ye the banners of Castile display'd, 
The helmets glittering, and the line ariay'd ? 
Heard ye the march of steel-clad hosts ? he cries, 
"Children of conquerors! in your strength arise! 
O high-born tribes : oh names unstain'd by fear ! 
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear! (17) 
Be every feud forgotten, and your hands 
Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands. (18) 
Walie, princes of the land ! the hour is come, 
And the red sabre must decide your doom. 
Where is that spirit which prevaii'd of yore. 
When Tarik's bands o'erspread the western 

shore ? (19) 
When the long combat raged on Xeres' plain, (20) 
And Afric's tecbirswell'd thro' yielding Spain? (21) 
Is the lance broken, is the shield decay'd, 
The warrior's arm unstrung, his heart dismay'd? 
Shall no high spirit of ascending worth 
Arise to lead the sons of Islam forth ? 
To guard the regions where our fathers' blood 
Hath bathed each plain, and mingled with each 

flood. 
Where long their dust hath blended with the soil 
Won by their swords, made fertile by their toil ? 

" O ye sierras of eternal snow ! 
Ye streams that by the tombs of heroes flow. 
Woods, fountains, rocks, of Spain ! ye saw their 

might 
In many a fierce and unforgotten fight ! 
Shall ye behold their lost, degenerate race. 
Dwell 'midst your scenes in fetters and disgrace? 
With each memorial of the past around. 
Each mighty monument of days renown'd ? 
May this indignant heart ere then be cold. 
This frame be gather'd to its kindred mould ! 
And the last life-drop circling through my veins 
Have tinged a soil untainted yet by chains ! 

" And yet one struggle ere our doom is seal'd. 
One mighty effort, one deciding field ! 
If vain each hope, we still have choice to be. 
In life the fetter'd, or in death the free !" 

Still while he speaks, each gallant heart beats 
high, 
And ardour flashes from each kindling eye ; 
Youth, manhood, age, as if inspired, have caught 
The glow of lofty hope and daring thought, 
And all is hush'd around — as every sense 
Dwelt on the tones of that wild eloquence. 

But when his voice hath ceased, th' impetuous cry 
Of eager thousands burst at once on high; 
Rampart, and rock, and fortress, ring around, 
And fair Alhambra's inmost halls resound : 
" Lead us, O chieftain ! lead us to the strife, 
To fame in death, or liberty in life !" 
O zeal of noble hearts ! in vain display'd ! 
High feeling wasted! generous hope betray'd! 
Now, while the burning spirit of the brave 
Is roused to energies that yet might save. 
E'en now, enthusiasts ! while ye rush to claim 
Your glorious trial on the field of fame. 
Your king hath yielded! Valour's dream is o'er; (22) 
Power, wealth, and freedom, are your own no 

more ; 
And for your children's portion, but remains 
That bitter heritage— the stranger's chains. 



CANTO III 



Fermossi al fin il cor che baizo tanto. 

Ippolito Pindemcmte. 

Heroes of elder days ! untaught to yield. 
Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field, 
Ye, that around the oaken cross of yore (23) 
Stood firm and fearless on Asturia's shore. 
And with your spirit, ne'er to be subdued, 
Hallow'd the wild Cantabrian solitude; 
Rejoice amidst your dwellings of repose, 
In the last chastening of your Moslem foes! 



Rejoice! — for Spain, arising in her strength. 
Hath burst the remnant of their yoke at length ; 
And they in turn the cup of woe must drain. 
And bathe their fetters with their tears in vain. 
And thou, the warrior born in happy hour, (21) 
Valencia's lord, whose name alone is power. 
Theme of a thousand songs in days gone by. 
Conqueror of Kings ! exult, O Cid ! on high. 
For still 'twas thine to guard thy country's weal, 
In life, in death, the watcher for Castile ! 

Thou, in that hour when Mauritania's bands 
Rush'd from their palmy groves and burning lands, 
E'en in the realm of spirits didst retain 
A patriot's vigilance, remembering Spain ! (25) 
Then, at deep midnight, rose the mighty sound. 
By Leon heard, in shuddering awe profound. 
As through her echoing streets in dread array. 
Beings, once mortal, held their viewless way ; 
Voices from worlds we know not — and the tread 
Of marching hosts, the armies of the dead. 
Thou and thy buried chieftains — from the grave 
Then did thy summons rouse a king to save, 
And join thy warriors with unearthly might 
To aid the rescue in Tolosa's figlit. 
Those days are past — the crescent on thy shore, 
O realm of evening ! sets, to rise no more. (2G) 
What banner streams afar from Vela's tower? (27) 
The cross, bright ensign of Iberia's power! 
What the glad shout of each exulting voice? 
" Castile and Arragon ! rejoice, rejoice!" 
Yielding free entrance to victorious foes. 
The Moorish city sees her gates unclose. 
And Spain's proud host, with pennon, shield, and 

lance. 
Through her long streets in knightly garb advance. 

Oh! ne'er in lofty dreams hath Fancy's eye 
Dwelt on a scene of statelier pageantry. 
At joust or tourney, theme of poet's lore. 
High masque, or solemn festival of yore. 
The gilded cupolas, that proudly rise 
O'erarch'd by cloudless and cerulean skies. 
Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric towers, 
Fountains, and palaces, and cypress bowers ; 
And they, the splendid and triumphant throng. 
With helmets glittering as they move along, 
With broider'd scarf, and gem-bestudded mail, 
And graceful plumage streaming on the gale ; 
Shields gold-eraboss'd, and pennons floating far, 
And all the gorgeous blazonry of war. 
All brighten'd by the rich transparent hues 
That southern suns o'er heaven and earth diff'use; 
Blend in one scene of glory, form'd to throw 
O'er memory's page a never-fading glow. 
And there too, foremost 'midst the conquering 

brave. 
Your azure plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs ! wave. 
There Hamet moves; the chief whose lofty port 
Seems nor approach to shun, nor praise to court, 
Calm, stern, collected— yet within his breast 
Is there no pang, no struggle unconfest ? 
If such there be, it still must dwell unseen, 
Nor cloud a triumph with a sufferer's mien. 

Hear'st thou the solemn, yet exulting sound 
Of the deep anthem floating far around? 
The choral voices to the skies that raise 
The full majestic harmony of praise ? 
Lo ! where, surrounded by their princely tram. 
They come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain, 
Borne on their trophied car — lo ! bursting thence 
A blaze of chivalrous magnificence I 

Onward their slow and stately course they bend 
To where th' Alhambra's ancient towers ascend, 
Rear'd and adorn'd by Moorish kings of yore. 
Whose lost descendants there shall dwell no more. 

They reach those towers — irregularly vast 
And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast: (28) 
They enter — to their wondering sight is given 
A genii palace— an Arabian heaven ! (29) 
A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair, 
Its forms and colours seem alike of air. 
Here by sweet orange-boughs, half shaded o'er. 
The deep clear bath reveals its marble floor. 



60 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



Its margin fringed with flowers, whose glowing 

hues 
The cahn transparence of its wave suffuse. 
There, round the court, where Moorish arches bend, 
Aerial columns, richly deck'd, ascend ; 
Unlike the models of each classic race. 
Of Doric grandeur, or Corinthian grace. 
But answering well each vision that portrays 
Arabian splendour to the poet's gaze : 
Wild, wondrous, brilliant, all—a mingling glow 
Of rainbow tints, above, around, below ; 
Bright-streaming from the many-tinctured veins 
Of precious marble— and the vivid stains 
Of rich mosaics o'er the light arcade. 
In gay festoons and fairy knots display'd. 

On through th' enchanted realm, that only seems 
Meet for the radiant creatures of our dreams. 
The royal conquerors pass— while still their sight 
On some new wonder dwells with fresh delight. 
Here the eye roves through slender colonnades, 
O'er bowery terraces and myrtle shades. 
Dark olive-woods beyond, and far on high 
The vast sierra, mingling with the sky. 
There, scattering far around their diamond spray, 
Clear streams from founts of alabaster play. 
Through pillar'd halls, where, exquisitely wrought. 
Rich arabesques, with glittering foliage fraught. 
Surmount each fretted arch, and lend the scene 
A wild, romantic, oriental mien : 
While many a verse from eastern bards of old, 
Borders the wall in characters of gold. (30) 
Here Moslem lu.xury, in her own domain. 
Hath held for ages her voluptuous reign 
'Midst gorgeous domes, where soon shall silence 

brood. 
And all be lone— a splendid solitude. 
Now wake their echoes to a thousand songs, 
From mingling voices of exulting throngs ; 
Tambour, and flute, and atabal, are there, (31) 
And joyous clarions pealing on the air. 
While every hall resounds, " Granada won ! 
Granada ! for Castile and Arragon !" (32) 

'T is night — from dome and tower, in dazzling 
maze. 
The festal lamps innumerably blaze ; (33) 
Through long arcades their quiveringlustre gleams, 
Prom every lattice tremulously streams, 
'Midst orange-gardens plays on fount and rill. 
And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil ; 
Red flame the torches on each minaret's height. 
And shines each street an avenue of light ; 
And midnight feasts are held, and music's voice 
Through the long night still summons to rejoice. 

Yet there, while all would seem to heedless eye 
One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry. 
Are hearts unsoothed by those delusive hours, 
Gall'd by the chain, though deck'd awhile with 

flowers ; 
Stern passions working in th' indignant breast, 
Deep pangs untold, high feelings unexprest, 
Heroic spirits, unsubmitting yet. 
Vengeance, and keen remorse, and vain regret. 

From yon proud height, whose olive-shaded brow 
Conmiands the wide luxuriant plains below. 
Who lingering gazes o'er the lovely scene. 
Anguish and shame contending in his mien ? 
He, who, of heroes and of kings the son. 
Hath lived to lose whate'er his fathers won. 
Whose doubts and fears his people's fate have 

seal'd. 
Wavering alike in council and in field ; 
Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave. 
Still a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave. 

Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies. 
To Afric's wilds the royal exile flies, (34) 
Yet pauses on his way, to weep in vain. 
O'er all he never must behold again. 
Fair spreads the scene around— for him too fair. 
Each glowing charm but deepens his despair. 
The Vega's meads, the city's glittering spires, 
The old majestic palace of his sires. 



The gay pavilions, and retired alcoves, 
Bosom'd in citron and pomegranate groves; 
Tower-crested rocks, and streams that wind in 

light, 
All in one moment bursting on his sight. 
Speak to his soul of glory's vanish'd years. 
And wake the source of unavailing tears. 
— Weep'st thou, Abdallah 7 — Thou dost well to 

weep, 
O feeble heart! o'er all thou couldst not keep! 
Well do a woman's tears befit the eye 
Of him who knew not, as a man, to die. (35) 

The gale sighs mournfully through Zayda's 
bower. 
The hand is gone that nursed each infant flower. 
No voice, no step, is in her father's halls. 
Mute are the echoes of their marble walls; 
No stranger enters at the chieftain's gate. 
But all is hush'd, and void, and desolate. 

There, through each tower and solitary shade, 
In vain doth Hamet seek the Zegri maid ; 
Her grove is silent, her pavilion lone, 
Her lute forsaken, and her doom unknown ; 
And through the scene she loved, unheeded flows 
The stream whose music lull'd her to repose. 

But oh! to him whose self-accusing thought 
Whispers 'twas he that desolation wrought; 
He who his country and his faith betray'd, 
And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid; 
A voice of sorrow swells in every gale. 
Each wave, low rippling, tells a mournful tale ; 
And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined, 
In wild exuberance rustle to the wind, 
Each leaf hath language to his startled sense. 
And seems to murmur — "Thou hast driven her 

hence!" 
And well he feels to trace her flight were vain, 
— Where hath lost love been once recall'd again ? 
In her pure breast, so long by anguish torn. 
His name can rouse no feeling now but scorn. 
O bitter hour ! when first the shuddering heart 
Wakes to behold the void within — and start ! 
To feel its own abandonment, and brood 
O'er the chill bosom's depth of solitude. 
The stormy passions that in Hamet's breast 
Have sway'd so long, so fiercely, are at rest ! 
Th' avenger's task is closed : (36) — he finds too late, 
It hath not changed his feelings, but his fate. 
His was a lofty spirit, turned aside 
From its bright path by woes, and wrongs, and 

pride. 
And onward, in its new tumultuous course. 
Borne with too rapid and intense a force 
To pause one moment in the dread career, • 
And ask — if such could be its native sphere. 
Now are those days of wild delirium o'er. 
Their fears and hopes excite his soul no more ; 
Tlie feverish energies of passion close. 
And his heart sinks in desolate repose. 
Turns sickening from the world, yet shrinks not 

less 
From its own deep and utter loneliness 

There is a sound of voices on the air, 
A flash of armour in the sunbeam's glare, 
'Midst the wild Alpuxarras; (37)— there, on high. 
Where mountain-snows are mingling with the 

sky, 
A few brave tribes, with spirit yet unhroke. 
Have fled indignant from the Spaniard's yoke. 

O ye dread scenes, where Nature dwells alone. 
Severely glorious on her craggy throne ; 
Ye citadels of rock, gigantic forms, 
Veil'd by the mists, and girdled by the storms; 
Ravines, and glens, and deep- resounding caves. 
That hold communion with the torrent- waves; 
And ye, the unstain'd and everlasting snows. 
That dwell above in bright and still repose; 
To you, in every clime, in every age. 
Far from the tyrant's or the conqueror's rage. 
Hath Freedom led her sons: untired to keep 
Her fearless vigils on the barren steep. 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



61 



She like the mountain Eagle still delights 
To gaze exulting from unconquor'd heights, 
I And build her eyrie in defiance proud, 
To dare the wind and mingle with the cloud. 

Now her deep voice, the soul's awakener, swells, 
Wild Alpuxarras, through your inmost dells. 
There, the dark glens and lonely rocks among, 
As at the clarion's call, her children throng. 
She with enduring strength hath nerved each frame, 
And made each heart the temple of her flame. 
Her own resisting spirit, which shall glow 
Unquenchably, surviving all below. 

There high-born maids, that moved upon the 
earth, 
More like bright creatures of aerial birth. 
Nurslings of palaces, have fled to share 
The fate of brothers and of sires ; to bear, 
All undismay'd, privation and distress. 
And smile, the roses of the wilderness. 
And mothers with their infants, there to dwell 
In the deep forest or the cavern cell, 
And rear their oflispring 'midst the rocks, to be 
If now no more the mighty, still the free. 

And 'midst that band of veterans, o'er whose 
head 
Sorrows and years their mingled snow have shed : 
They saw thy glory, they have wept thy fall, 
O royal city! and the wreck of all 
They loved and hallow'd most :— doth aught re- 
main 
For these to prove of happiness or pain ? 
Life's cup is drain'd — earth fades before their eye, 
Their task is closing — they have but to die. 
Ask ye, why fled they hither? — that their doom 
Might be to sink unfetter'd to the tomb. 
And youth, in all its pride of strength, is there; 
And buoyancy of spirit, form'd to dare 
And suffer all things, — fallen on evil days, 
Yet darting o'er the world an ardent gaze. 
As on th' arena, where its powers may find 
Full scope to strive for glory with mankind. 

Such are the tenants of the mountain-hold. 
The high in heart, unconquer'd, uncontroll'd; 
By day the huntsman of the wild — by night, 
Unvfearied guardians of the watch-fire's light. 
They from their bleak, majestic home have caught 
A sterner tone of unsubmitting thought. 
While all around them bids the soul arise, 
To blend with Nature's dread sublimities. 
— But these are lofty dreams, and must not be 
Where tyranny is near: — the bended knee. 
The eye, whose glance no inborn grandeur fires, 
And the tamed heart, are tributes she requires; 
Nor must the dwellers of the rock look down 
On regal conquerors and defy their frown. 
What warrior-band is toiling to explore 
The mountain-pass, with pine-wood shadow'd 

o'er? 
Startling with martial sound each rude recess, 
Where the deep echo slept in loneliness. 
These are the sons of Spain! — Your foes are near: 
Oh, exiles of the wild sierra ! hear ! 
Hear ! wake ! arise ! and from your inmost caves, 
Pour like the torrent in its might of waves! 

Who leads th' invaders on ? — his features bear 
The deep- worn traces of a calm despair ; 
Yet his dark brow is haughty — and his eye 
Speaks of a soul that asks not sympathy. 
'T is he ! 'tis he again ! the apostate chief; 
He comes in all the sternness of his grief. 
He comes, but changed in heart, no more to wield 
Falchion for proud Castile in battle-field. 
Against his country's children — though he leads 
Castilian bands again to hostile deeds: 
His hope is but from ceaseless pangs to fly, 
To rush upon the Moslem spears and die. 
So shall remorse and love the heart release, 
Which dares not dream of joy, but sighs for peace. 
The mountain-echoes are awake — a sound 
Of strife is ringing throuali the rocks around. 
Within the steep defile that winds between 
Cliffs piled on cliffs, a dark, terrific scene. 



There Moorish exile and Castilian knight 
Are wildly mingling in the serried fight. 
Red flows the foaming streamlet of the glen. 
Whose bright transparence ne'er was stain'd til! 

then ; 
While swell the war-note and the clash of spears, 
To the bleak dwellings of the mountaineers. 
Where thy sad daughters, lost Granada ! wait 
In dread suspense, the tidings of their fate. 
But he— whose spirit panting for its rest, 
Would fain each sword concentrate in his breast — 
Who, where a spear is pointed, or a lance 
Aim'd at another's breast, would still advance- 
Courts death in vain; each weapon glances by, 
As if for him 't were bliss too great to die. 
Yes ! Aben-Zurrah ! there are deeper woes 
Reserved for thee, ere Nature's last repose ; 
Thou know'st not yet what vengeance fate can 

wreak. 
Nor all the heart can suffer ere it break. 
Doubtful and long the strife, and bravely fell 
The sons of battle in that narrow dell ; 
Youth in its light of beauty there hath past, 
And age, the weary, found repose at last ; 
Till few and faint the Moslem tribes recoil. 
Borne down by numbers and o'erpower'd by toil. 
Dispersed, dishearten'd through the pass they fly. 
Pierce the deep wood, or mount the cliff on high ; 
While Hamet's band in wonder gaze, nor dare 
Track o'er their dizzy path the footsteps of despair. 

Yet he to whom each danger hath become 
A dark delight, and every wild a home. 
Still urges onward — undismay'd to tread 
Where life's fond lovers would recoil with dread; 
But fear is for the happy— t/ie?/ may shrink 
From the steep precipice, or torrent's brink ; 
They to whom earth is paradise — their doom 
Lends no stern courage to approach the tomb; 
Not such his lot, who, school'd by fate severe, 
Were but too bless'd if aught remain'd to fear. (38) 
Up the rude crags, whose giant masses throw 
Eternal shadows o'er the glen below ; 
And by the fall whose many-tinctured spray 
Half in a mist of radiance veils its way. 
He holds his venturous track : — supported now 
By some o'erhanging pine or ilex bough ; 
Now by some jutting stone that seems to dwell 
Half in mid-air, as balanced by a spell : 
Now hath his footsteps gain'd the summit's head, 
A level span, with emerald verdure spread, 
A fairy circle — there the heath-flowers rise. 
And the rock-rose unnoticed blooms and dies; 
And brightly, plays the stream, ere yet its tide 
In foam and thunder cleave the mountain side; 
But all is wild beyond — and Hamet's eye 
Roves o'er a world of rude sublimity. 
That dell beneath, where e'en at noon of day 
Earth's charter'd guest, the sunbeam, scarce can 

stray ; 
Around, untrodden woods ; and far above, 
Where mortal footstep ne'er may hope to rove. 
Bare granite cliffs, whose fix'd, inherent dyes 
Rivalthe tints that float o'er summer skies ;(30) 
And the pure glittering snow-realm, yet more high, 
That seems a part of heaven's eternity. 

There is no track of man where Hamet stands. 
Pathless the scene as Libya's desert sands; 
Yet on the calm, still air, a sound is heard 
Of distant voices, and the gathering-word 
Of Islam's tribes, now faint and fainter grown. 
Now but the lingering echo of a tone. 

That sound, whose cadence dies upon his ear, 
He follows, reckless if his bands are near. 
On by the rushing stream his way he bends. 
And through the mountain's forest zone ascends ; 
Piercing the still and solitary shades 
Of ancient pines, and dark, luxuriant glades. 
Eternal twilight's reign: — those mazes past 
The glowing sunbeams meet his eyes at last. 
And the lone wanderer nowhath reach'd the source 
Whence the wave gushes, foaming on its course. 
But there he pauses — for the lonely scene 
Towers in such<lread magnificence of mien. 



62 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



And, mingled oft with some wild eagle's cry, 
From rock-built eyrie rushing to the sky, 
So deep the solemn and majestic sound 
Of forests, and of waters murmuring round, 
Tliat, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets 
Its fleeting struggles, and its vain regrets. 
—What earthly feeling unabasiVd can dwell 
In Nature's mighty presence ?— 'midst the swell 
Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods, 
And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods? 
These their own grandeur on the soul impress. 
And bid each passion feel its nothingness. 

'Midst the vast marble cliflis, a lofty cave 
Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave ; 
Shadow'd by giant oaks, and rude, and lone. 
It seems the temple of some power unknown, 
Where earthly being may not dare intrude 
To pierce the secrets of the solitude. 
Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail 
Is rising, wild and solemn, on the gale. 
Did thy heart thrill, O Hamet, at the tone? 
Came it not o'er thee as a spirit's moan ? 
As some loved sound that long from earth had fled 
The unforgotten accents of the dead? 
E'en thus it rose— and springing from his trance, 
His eager footsteps to the sound advance. 
He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor; 
Its dark green moss with blood is sprinkled o'er: 
He rushes on — and lo ! where Zayda rends 
Her locks, as o'er her slaughter'd sire she bends. 
Lost in despair ; — yet as a step draws nigh. 
Disturbing sorrow's lonely sanctity. 
She lifts her head, and all subdued by grief. 
Views, with a wild, sad smile, the once-loved chief; 
While rove her thoughts, unconscious of the past. 
And every woe forgetting— but the last. 

" Com'st thou to weep with me ? — for I am left 
Alone on earth, of every tie bereft. 
Low lies the warrior on his blood-stain'd bier ; 
His child may call, but he no more shall hear ! 
He sleeps— but never shall those eyes unclose; 
'Twas not my voice that luU'd him to repose, 
Nor can it break his slumbers. — Dost thou mourn ? 
And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn ? 
Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know. 
That o'er his grave my tears with Hamet's flow !" 

But scarce her voice had breathed that well- 
known name. 
When, swiftly rushing o'er her spirit, came 
Each dark remembrance ; by affliction's power 
Awhile effiiced in that o'erwhelming hour. 
To wake with tenfold strength;— 'twas then her 

eye 
Resumed its light, her mien its majesty, 
And o'er her wasted cheek a burning glow 
Spreads, while her lip's indignant accents flow. 

" Away ! I dream — oh, how hath sorrow's might 
Bow'd down my soul, and quench'd its native light. 
That I should thus forget ! and bid thy tear 
W^ith mine be mingled o'er a father's bier ! 
Did he not perish, haply by thy hand. 
In the last combat with thy ruthless band? 
The morn beheld that conflict of despair : — • 
'T was then he fell— he fell !— and thou wertahere! 
Thou ! who thy country's children hast pursued 
To their last refuge 'midst these mountains rude. 
Was it for this I loved thee?— Thou hast taught 
My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought! 
'Twill soon be past — Ibow to Heaven's decree. 
Which bade each pang be minister'd by thee." 

" I had not deem'd that aught remain'd below 
For me to prove of yet \intasted woe ; 
But thus to meet thee, Zayda ! can impart 
One more, one keener agony of heart. 
Oh, hear me yet !— I would have died to save 
My foe, but still thy father, from the grave ; 
But in the fierce confusion of the strife. 
In my own stern despair and scorn of life, 
Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught, 
Save that to perish there in vain I sought. 
And let me share thy sorrows — hadst thou known 
All I have felt in silence and alone. 



E'en than might'st then relent, and deem at last 
A grief like mine might e.xpiate all the past. 

" But oh ! for thee, the loved and precious flower. 
So fondly rear'd in luxury's guarded bower. 
From every danger, every storm secured. 
How hast thou suff'er'd ! what hast thou endured; 
Daughter of palaces ! and can it be 
That this bleak desert is a home for thee ? 
These rocks thy dwelling ! thou, who shouldst 

have known 
Of life the sunbeam and the smile alone ! 
Oh, yet forgive ! — be all my guilt forgot. 
Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot !" 

" That lot is fi.t'd ; 'twere fruitless to repine, 
Still must a gulf divide my fate from thine. 
I may forgive — but not at will the heart 
Can bid its dark remembrances depart. 
No, Hamet, no! — too deeply these are traced. 
Yet the hour comes when all shall be efl^aced ! 
Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep 
Her lonely vigils o'er the grave to weep: 
E'en now prophetic of my early doom. 
Speaks to my soul a presage of the tomb ; 
And ne'er in vain did hopeless mourner feel 
That deep foreboding o'er the bosom steal ! 
Soon shall I slumber calmly by the side 
Of him for whom I lived and would have died : 
Till then, one thought shall soothe my orphan lot, 
In pain and peril — I forsook him not. 

"And now, farewell I — behold the summer-day 
Is passing, like the dreams of life, away. 
Soon will the tribe of him who sleeps draw nigh, 
With the last rites his bier to sanctify. 
Oh, yet in time, away! — 'twere not my prayer 
Could move their hearts a foe like thee to spare! 
This hour they come — and dost thou scorn to fly ? 
Save me that one last pang — to see thee die !" 

E'en while she speaks is heard their echoing 
tread ; 
Onward they move, the kindred of the dead. 
They reach the cave — they enter — slow their pace. 
And calm, deep sadness marks each mourner's face. 
And all is hush'd — till he who seems to wait 
In silent, stern devotedness, his fate. 
Hath met their glance — then grief to fury turns; 
Each mien is changed, each eye indignant burns. 
And voices rise, and swords have left their sheath : 
Blood must atone for blood, and death for death ! 
They close around him : — lofty still his mien 
His cheek unalter'd, and his brow serene. 
Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda's cry ; 
Fruitless her prayer, unmark'd her agony. 
But as his foremost foes their weapons bend 
Against the life he seeks not to defend. 
Wildly she darts between — each feeling past, 
Save strong affection, which prevails at last. 
Oh ! not in vain its daring — for the blow 
Aim'd at his heart hath bade her life-blood flow; 
And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast, 
Where, in that hour, her head may calmly rest. 
For he is saved :— behold the Zegri band. 
Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand ; 
While, every thought of hate and vengeance o'er. 
They weep for her who soon shall weep no more. 
She, she alone is calm; — a fading smile. 
Like sunset, passes o'er her cheek the while; 
And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell 
Those last faint rays, the parting soul's farewell. 

" Now is the conflict past, and I have proved 
How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved ! 
Yes! in an hour like this 'twere vain to hide 
The heart so long and so severely tried : 
Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrill'd. 
But sterner duties call'd— and were fulfiU'd: 
And I am blest !— To every holier tie 
My life was faithful,— and for thee I die ! 
Nor shall the love so purified be vain ; 
Sever'd on earth, we yet shall meet again. 
Farewell ! — And ye, at Zayda's dying prayer. 
Spare him, my kindred tribe ! forgive and spare! 
Oh ! be his guilt forgotten in his woes. 
While I, beside my sire, in peace repose." 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEIvIS. 



63 



Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, and 
death 
Sits in her eye, and strusgles in her breath. 
One pang — 'tis past — her task on earth is done 
And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown 
But he for whom she died— Oh! wlio may paint 
The grief, to which all other woes were faint ? 
There is no power in language to impart 
The deeper pangs, th' ordeals of the heart. 
By the dread Se"archer of the soul survey'd ; 
These have no words— nor are by words portray'd. 

A dirge is rising on the mountain-air. 
Whose fitful swells its plaintive murmurs bear 
Far o'er the Alpuxarras ;— wild its tone, 
And rocks and caverns echo "Thou art gone !" 

" Daughter of heroes ! thou art gone 

To share his tomb who gave thee birth ; 
Peace to the lovely spirit flown ! 

It was not form'd for earth. 
Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race. 
Which brightly past, and left no trace. 

" But calmly sleep '.—for thou art free. 

And hands unchain'd thy tomb shall raise. 

Sleep ! they are closed at length for thee, 
Life's few and evil days! 

Nor Shalt thou watch, with tearful eye. 

The lingering death of liberty. 

" Flower of the desert ! thou thy bloom 
Didst early to the storm resign : 
We bear it still — and dark their doom 

Who cannot weep for thine ! 
For us, whose every hope is fled. 
The time is past to mourn the dead. 

"The days have been, when o'er thy bier 
Far other strains than these had flow'd ; 
Now, as a home from grief and fear. 

We hail thy dark abode ! 
We who but linger to bequeath 
Our sons the choice of chains or death. 

" Thou art with those, the free, the brave, 

The mighty of departed years ; 
And for the slumberers of the grave 

Our fate hath left no tears. 
Though loved and lost, to weep were vain 
For tiiee, who ne'er shalt weep again. 

" Have we not seen, despoil'd by foes. 
The land our fathers won of yore ? 

And is there yet a pang for those 
Who gaze on this no more ? 

Oh, that like them 'twere ours to rest! 

Daughter of heroes ! thou art blest !" 

A few short years, and in the lonely cave 
Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hamet's grave. 
Sever'd in life, united in the tomb — 
Such of the hearts that loved so well, the doom ! 
Their dirge, of woods and waves th' eternal moan ; 
Their sepulchre, the pine-clad rocks alone. 
And oft beside the midnight watch-fire's blaze. 
Amidst those rocks, in long departed days 
(When Freedom fled, to hold, sequester'd there. 
The stern and lofty councils of despair). 
Some exiled Moor, a warrior of the wild, 
Whothe lone hours with mournful strains beguiled. 
Hath taught his mountain-home the tale of those 
Who thus have sufFer'd, and who thus repose. 



NOTES. 

Note 1. \ 

Not the light zambra, 
Zambra, a Moorish dance. 

Note 2. 
Within ike hall of Lions. 
The hall of Lions was the principal one of the Alhambra, and 
sculptured lions, which supported an 



Seen ''mid. 
An extreme redness 
Bruce''s Travels, 



Note 3. 
His Ahen-Zurralis there young Harriet leads, 
Aben-Zurrahs; the name thus written is taken from the transla- 
tion of an Arabic MS. given in the 3d volume of Bourgoanne's Tra- 
vels through Spain. 

Note 4. 

The Vega's green expanse. 
The Vega, the plain surrounding Granada, the scene of frequent 
actions between the Moors and Chri5tians. 

Note 5. 
( the redyiess of the desert storm. 
n the sky is the presage of the Simoom. — See 

Note 6. 

Stillness lik.e that., when fierce the Kamsiri's blast 
Hath o^er the dwellings of the desert passed. 
Of the Kamsin, a hot south wind, common in Egypt, we have the 
following account in Volney's Travels : ''These w'inds ace known 
in E^ypt by the general name of the winds of fifty days, because 
they prevail more frequently in the fifty days preceding and rollow- 
ing the equinox. They are mentioned by travellers under the name 
of the poisonous winds, or hot winds of the desert : their heat is so 
excessive, that it is difficult to form any idea of jts violence without 
having experienced it. When they begin to blow, the sky, at other 
times so clear in this climate, becomes dark and heavy ; the sun loses 
his splendour, and appears of a violet colour ; the air is hot cloudy, 
but gray and thick, and is filled with a subtile dust, which penetrates 
everywhere: respiration becomes short and difficult, the skin parched 
and dry, the lungs are contracted and painful, and the body consumed 
with internal heat. In vain is coolness sought for; marble, iron, 
water, though the sun no longer appears, are hot : the streets are de- 
serted, and a dead silence appears everywhere. The natives of towns 
and villages shut themselves up in their houses, and those of the 
desert in tenfs, or holes dug in the earth, where they wait the termi- 
nation of this heat, which generally lasts three days. Woe to the 
traveller whom it surprises remote from shelter : he must suffer afl 
its dreadful effects, which are sometimes mortal." 

Note 7. 

IVhile tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of sleep. 

"Enjoy the honey-heavy-dew of slumber."— S/taftayeare. 

Note 8. 

On the green Vega won in single fight. 

Garcilaso de la Vega derived his surname from a single combat 

(in which he was the victor) with a Moor, on the Vega of Granada. 

Note 0. 
FT'Tfo drank for man the bilttr cup of tears. 
" El Rey D. Fernando bolvio a la Vega, y puso su Real a hi vis?a 
de Huecar, a veynte y seys dias del mes de Abril, adonde fue forti- 
ficado de todo lo necessarioj poniendo el Christiano toda su eente en 
esquadron, con todas sus vanderas tendidas, y su Real Estandarfe, el 
qual llevava por divisa un Christo crucificado." — Historia de la 
Guerras Civilcs de Granada. 

Note 10. 

From yon rich province of the western star. 
Andalusia signifies, in Arabic, the region of the evening or of the 
west ; in a word, the Hesperia of the Greeks.— See Casiri. Bihliot. 
ArahicQ-Hispana, and GibbmVs Decline and Fall., &c. 

Note 11. 
The snow-zohite charger, and the azure crest, 
" Los Abencerrages salieron con su acostumbrada librea azul y 
blanca, todos llenos de ricos texidos de plata. las plnmas de la misma 
color; en sus adargas, su acostumbrada divisa, salvages que des- 
quixalavan lennes, y otros un niundo que lo deshazia un selvage con 
un baston." — Guerras Civiles dc Granada. 

Note 12. 
Th* eternal snow that crowns VeUta''s head. 



Note 13. 

The wounded sought a shelters-arid expired. 
It is known to be a frequent circumstance in battle, that the dyinig 
and the wounded drag themselves, as it were mechanically, to the 
shelter afforded by any bush or thicket on the field. 

Note 14. 

Severely beauteous. 
" Severe in youthful beauty."— Mi^iOTi. 

Note 15. 
While streains, that bear thee treasures in their wave. 
Granada stands upon two hills, separated by the Darro. The Genii 
runs under the walls. The Darro is said to carry with its stream 
small particles of gold, and the Genii, of silver. When Charles V. 
came to Granada with the Empress Isabella, the city presented him 
with a crown, made of gold which bad been collected from the 
Darro. — See Bourgoanne's and other Travels. 

Note 16. 

The hearts of warriors echo to its call. 
'At this period, while the inhabitants of Granada were sunk in 



indolence, one of those : 



I whose natural and impassioned elo- 



64 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



quence has sometimes arouseil a people to deeds of heroism, raised 
Ills voice, in the midst of the city, and aii'akened the inhabitants 
from their lethargy. Twenty thousand enthusiasts, ranged under 
his banners, were prepared to sally forth, with the fury of despera- 
tion, to attack the besiegers, when Abo Abdeli, more afraid of his 
subjecis than of the enemy, resolved immediately to capitulate, and 
made terms with the Chrislians, by which it was agreed that the 
Moors should be allowed the free exercise of their religion and laws : 
should be permitted, if they thought proper, to depart unmolesled 
with their elfects to Africa ; and that he himself, if he remained in 
Spain, should retain an extensive estate, with houses and slaves, or 
be granted an equivalent in money if he preferred retiring to Bar- 
bary."— See JacoWs Travels in Spain. 

Note 17. 
Azarques, Zc^is, Mmoradis, hear '. 
Azirques, Zcgris, Almoradis, dilferent tribes of the Moors of 
Granada, all of high distinction. 

iVoTE 18. 
Dyed with no blood but that of hostile hands. 
The conquest of Granada was greatly facilitated by the civil dis- 
sensions which, at this period, prevailed in the city. Several of the 
Moorish tribes, influenced by private feuds, were fully prepared for 
Bubmission to the Spaniards ; others had embraced the cause of Mu- 
ley el Zagal, the uncle and competitor for the throne of Abdallah (or 
Abo Abdeli), and all was jealousy and animosity. 

Note 19. 

Whm. Tarih's bands o'erspread the western shore. 
Tarik, the first leader of the Arabs and Moors into Spain.— "The 
Saracens landed at the pillar or point of Europe: the corrupt and 
familiar appellation of Gibraltar (Gebel al Tarik) describes the 
mountain of Tarik, and the intrenchments of his camp were the first 
outline of those fortifications, which, in the hands of our countrymen, 
have resisted the art and power of the House of Bourbon. The adja- 
cent governors informed the court of Toledo of the descent and pro- 
fress of the Arabs; and the defeat of his lieutenant, Edeco, who had 
een commanded to seize and bind the presumptuous strangers, first 
admonished Roderic of the magnitude of the danger. At the royal 
summons, the dukes and counts, the bishops and nobles of the Gothic 
monarchy, assembled at the head of their followers; and the title of 
king of the Romans, which is employed by an Arabic historian, may 
be excused by the close affinity of language, religion, and manners 
between the nations of Spain."— Giidon's Decline and Fall, &c. 
vol. ix. pp. 472, 473. 

Note 20. 

When the long combat raged on Xcres' plain. 
" In the neighbourhood of Cadiz, the town of Xeres has been illus- 
trated by the encounter which determined the fate of the kingdom ; 
the stream of the Guadalete, which falls into the bay, divided the 
two camps, and marked the advancing and retreating skirmishes of 
three successive days. On the fourth day, the two armies joined a 
more serious and decisive issue." " Notwithstanding the valour of 
the Saracens, they fainted under the weight of multitudes, and the 
plain of Xeres was overspread with sixteen thousand of their dead 
bodies.— 'My brethren,' said Tarik lo his surviving companions, 'the 
enemy is before you, the sea is behind ; whither would ye fly ? Fol- 
low your general ; I am resolved either to lose my life, or to trample 
on the prostrate king of the Romans.' Besides the resource of de- 
spair, he confided in the secret correspondence and nocturnal inter- 
views of count Julian with the sons and the brother of Wiliza. The 
two princes, and the archbishop of Toledo, occupied the most im- 
portant post; their well-timed defection broke the ranks of the 
Chrislians; each warrior was prompted by fear or suspicion to con- 
sult bis personal safety; and the remains of the Gothic army were 
scattered or destroved in the flisht and pursuit of Ihe Ihree following 
days."— Giiion's Decline and Fall, &c. vol. ix. on. 473, 474. 

Note 21. 
And Mfric\i teclir swelled through yielding Spain. 
The iecbir, the shout of onset used by the Saracens in battle. 

Note 22. 
Tour king hath yielded. ! Falour's dream is o'er. 
The terrors occasioned by this sudden excitement of popular feel- 
ing seem even to have accelerated Abo Abdeli's capitulalion. "Aler- 
rado Abo Abdeli con el alboroto, y temiendo no ser ya el Dueno de 
nn pueblo amotinado, se apresuro a concluir una capilulacion. la 
menos dura que podia obtener en Ian urgentes circunstancias, y ofre- 
cio enlregar a Granada el dia seis de Enero."— P(Mcos en Granada- 
vol. i. p.298. 

Note 23. 
Ye, that around the oaken cross of yore. 
The oaken cross, carried by Pelagius in battle. 
Note 24. 
And thou, the warrior, born in happy hour. 
See Soulhey's Chronicle of Ihe Cid, in which that warrior is fre- 
quently styled, " he who was bom in happy hour."^ 

Note 25. 

E'en m the realm of spirits didst retain 

A patrioVs vigilance, remembering Spain ! 

"Moreover, when the Miramamnlin brought over from Africa, 

against King Don Alfonso, the eighth of that name, the mightiest 

power of the misbelievers that had ever been brought against Spain, 

since Ihe destruction of the kings of the Goths, the Cid Campeador 

remembered his country in tliat great danger ; for Ihe uight before 



the battle was fought at the Navas de Tolosa, in the dead of the 
night, a mighty sound was heard in the whole city of Leon, as if it 
were the tramp of a great army passing through ; and it passed on 
to the royal monastery of St. Isidro, and there was a great knocking 
at the gate thereof, and Ihey called to a priest who was keeping vigils 
in the church, and told him, that the captains of the army whom he 
heard were Ihe Cid Ruydiez, and Count Ferran Gonzalez, and that 
they came there to call up King Don Ferrando the Great, who Jay 
buried in that church, that he might go with them to deliver Spain. 
And on the morrow that great battle of the Navas de I'olosa was 
fought, wherein sixty thousand of the misbelievers were slain, which 
was one of the greatest and noblest battles ever won over the Moors." 
— Southeifs Chronicle of the Cid. 

Note 2G. 

realm of evening I 
The name of Andalusia, the region of evening or of the west, was 
applied by the Arabs, not only to the province so called, but to the 
whole peninsula. 

Note 27. 
What banner streams afar from Vela's tower ? 
" En este dia, p-ara siempre memorable, los estandartes de la Cruz, 
de St. lago, y el de los Reyes de Castilla se Iremolaron sobre la torre 
mas alta, llamada de la Vela ; y un exercito prosternado, inundan- 
dose en lagrimas de gozo y reconocimiento, asistio al mas glorioso 
de los espectaculos." — Paseos en Granada, vol. i. p. 299. 

Note 28. 
y/in/ reach those towers — irregularly vast 
And rude they seem, in mould barbaric east. 

Swinburne, after describing the noble palace built by Charles V. 
in the precincts of the Alhambra, thus proceeds : " Adjoining (to Ihe 
north) stands a hu^e heap of as ugly buildings as can well be seen, 
all huddled together, seemingly without the least intention of forming 
OTIC habilalion out of them. The walls are entirely unornamented, 
all gravel and pebbles, daubed over with plaster by a very coarse 
hand ; yet this is the palace of the Moorish kings of Granada, indis- 
putably Ihe most curious place within that exists in Spain, perhaps 
in Europe. In many countries you may see excellent modern as 
well as ancient architecture, both entire and in ruins; but nothing 
to be met with anywhere else can convey an idea of this edifice, ex- 
cept you take it from the decorations of an opera, or the tales of the 
genii." — Swinbume^s Travels through Spain. 

Note 29. 
A genii palace — an Arabian heaven. 
" Passing round the corner of the emperor's palace, you are ad- 
mitted at a plain unornamented door, in a corner. On my first visit, 
I confess, I was struck with amazement as Istejit over the threshold, 
to find myself on a sudden transported into a species of fairy land. 
The first place you come to is the court called the Communa, or del 
Mesucar, that is, the common baths ; an oblong square, with a deep 
bason of clear water in the middle ; two flights of marble steps lead- 
ing down to the bottom ; on each side a parterre of flowers, and a 
row of orange-trees. Round the court runs a peristyle paved with 
marble; the arches bear upon very slight pillars, in proportions and 
style different from all the regular orders of architecture. The ceil- 
ings and walls are incrustated with fretwork in stucco, so minute and 
intricate, that the most patient draughtsman would find it ditFicult to 
follow it, unless he made himself master of the general plan." — 
Swinbume^s Travels in Spain. 

Note 30. 
Borders ihe walls in characters of gold. 
The walls and cornices of the Alhambra are covered with inscrip- 
tions in Arabic characters. " In examining this abode of magnifi- 
cence," says Bourgoanne. " the observer is every moment astonished 
at the new and interesting mixture of architecture and poetry. The 
palace of Ihe Alhambra may be called a collection of fugitive pieces ; 
and whatever duration these may have, time, with which everything 
passes away, has too much conlributed to confirm to them that title." 
— See Bourgoanne's Travels in Spain, 

Note 31. 
Tambour, and flute, and atabal, arc there. 
Atabal, a kind of Moorish drum. 

Note 32. 
Granada ! for Castile and Arragm ! 
" Y ansi entraron en la ciudad, y subieron al Alhambra, y encima 
de la torre de Comares tan famosa se levanto la senal de la Santa 
Cruz, y luego el real estandarte de los dos Chrislianos reyes. Y al 
punio los reyes de armas, a grandes bozes dizieron, ' Granada I Gra- 
nada! por su magestad, y por la reyna su muger.' La serenissima 
reyna D. Isabel que vio la senal de la Santa Cruz sobre la hermoea 
torre de Comares, y el su estandarte real con ella, se hinco de RO- 
dillas, y dio infinitas gracias a Dios por la victoria que le avia dado 
contra aquella gran ciudad. La musica real de la capilla del rey 
luego a canto de organo canto Te Deum laudamus. Fue Ian grande 
el plazer que todos lloravan. Luego del Alhambra sonaron mil in- 
strumentos de musica de belicas trompetas. Los Moros amigos del 
rey, que querian ser Chrislianos, cuya cabeza era el valeroso Muca, 
tomaron mil dulz.aynas y anafiles, sonando grande ruydo de atambores 
por toda la ciudad." — Bistoria de las Gusrras Civiles de Granada, 

Note 33. 

3716 festal lamps innumerably blaie. 

" Los cavalleros Moros que avemos dicho, aquella noche jugaron 

galauamente alcancias y canaa. Andava Granada aquella noche con 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



65 



tanta alegria, y con tantas luminarias, que parecia que se ardia la 
tierra."— ffiifi^orta de las Guerras Civilex de Granada, 

Swinburne, in his Travels through Spain, in tiie years 1775 and 
1776, mentions that the anniversary of the surrender of Granada to 
Ferdinand and Isabella was still observed in the city as a great tes- 
tival and day of rejoicin?j and that the populace oc that occasion 
paid an annual visit to the Moorish palace. 

Note 34. 

To Afric's wilds the royal exile flies. 

"LosGomeles todos se passiron en Africa, y el Rey Chico con 

ellos, que no quiso estar en Espana, y en Africa le mataron lo Moros 

de aquellas partes, porque perdio a Granada."— Gucrroi Civiles de 

Granada, 

Note 35. 

Of him who knew not, as a man, to die. 
Abo Ahdeli, upon leaving Granada, after its conquest by Ferdinand 
and Isabella, stopped on the hill of Padul to take a last look of his 
city and palace. Overcome by the sight, he burst into tears, and was 
thus reproached by his mother, the Sultaness Aysa ; " Thou dost 
well to weep, like a woman, over the loss of that kingdom which 
4hou tnewest not how to defend and die for like a man." 

Note 36. 
Th' avenger'^s tosh is closed. 
*' El rey mando, que si quedavan Zegris, que no viviessen en Gra- 
nada, por la maldad que hizieron contra los Abencerrages." — Guerras 
Civiles dt Granada. 

Note 37. 
^Midst the wild Alpuxarras. 
" The Alpuxarras are so lofty that the coast of Earbary, and the 
cities of Tangier and Ceuta, are discovered from their summits ; they 
are about seventeen leagues in length, from Veles Malaga to Almeria, 
and eleven in breadth, and abound with fruit-trees of great beauty 
and prodigious size. In these mountains the wretched remains of the 
Moors took refuge.'" — Bourgoanne^s Travels in Spain. 

Note 38. 
JVere lait too blest if aught remained to fear. 
" Plut a Dieu que je craignisse P' — Aridromaque. 



Rival the tints that float d^e 



skies. 



Mrs. Radcliffe. in her journey along the banks of the Rhine, thus 
describes the colours of the granite rocks in the mountains nf the 
Bergstrasse. " The nearer we approached these mountains, the more 
we had occasion lo admire the various tints of their granites. Some- 
times the precipices were of a faint pink, then of a deep red, a dull 
purple, or a blush approaching to lilac, and sometimes gleams of a 
pale yellow mingled with the low shrubs that grew upon their sides. 
The day was cloudless and bright, and we were too near these 
heights to be deceived by the illusions of aerial colouring ; the real 
hues of their features were as beautiful, as their magnitude was 
sublime.'' 



ttJoiH Of ©rrscrntius. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

" In the reign of Otho HI. Emperor of Germa- 
ny, the Romans, excited by their Consul, Crescen- 
tius, who ardently desired to restore the ancient 
glory of the republic, made a bold attempt to shake 
off the Sa.xon yoke, and the authority of the 
Popes, whose vices rendered them objects of uni- 
versal contempt. The Consul was besieged by 
Otho in the Mole of Hadrian, which, long after- 
wards, continued to be called the Tower of Cres- 
centius. Otho, after many unavailing attacks 
upon this fortress, at last entered into negotia- 
tions; and pledging his imperial word to respect 
the life of Crescentius, and the rights of the Ro- 
man citizens, the unfortunate leader was betrayed 
into his power, and immediately beheaded, with 
many of his partisans. Stephana, his widow, con- 
cealing her affliction and her resentment for the 
insults to which she had been exposed, secretly 



resolved to revenge her husband and herself On 
the return of Otho from a pilgrimage to Mount 
Gargana, which perhaps a feeling of remorse had 
induced him to undertake, she found means to be 
introduced to him, and to gain his confidence ; 
and a poison administered by her was soon after- 
wards the cause of his painful death." — See Sis- 
mondi, History of the Italian Republics, vol. i. 



PART I. 



'Midst Tivoli's luxuriant glades. 
Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades. 
Where dwelt, in days departed long, 
The sons of battle and of song. 
No tree, no shrub its foliage rears. 
But o'er the wrecks of other years. 
Temples and domes, which long have been 
The soil of that enchanted scene. 

There the wild fig-tree and the vine 
O'er Hadrian's mouldering villa twine ; (1) 
The cypress, in funereal grace. 
Usurps the varnish'd column's place ; 
O'er fallen shrine, and ruin'd frieze. 
The wall-flower rustles in the breeze ; 
Acanthus-leaves the marble hide, 
They once adorn'd in sculptured pride ; 
And nature hath resumed her throne 
O'er the vast works of ages flown. 

Was it for this that many a pile 
Pride of Ilissus and of Nile, 
To Anio's banks the image lent 
Of each imperial monument? (2) 
Now Athens weeps her shatter'd fanes, 
Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains ; 
And the proud fabrics Hadrian rear'd 
From Tiber's vale have disappear'd. 
Wo need no prescient sibyl there. 
The doom of grandeur to declare, 
Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb, 
Reveals some oracle of Time : 
Each relic utters Fate's decree. 
The future as the past shall be. 

Halls of the dead ! in Tiber's vale. 
Who now shall tell your lofty tale? 
Who trace the high patrician's dome, 
The bard's retreat, the hero's home ? 
When moss-clad wrecks alone record. 
There dwelt the world's departed lord ! 
In scenes where verdure's rich array 
Still sheds young beanty o'er decay. 
And sunshine, on each slowing hill, 
'Midst ruins finds a dwelling still. 

Sunk is thy palace, but thy tomb, 
Hadrian ! hath shared a prouder doom, (3) 
Though vanish'd with the days of old 
Its pillars of Corinthian mould ; 
And the fair forms by sculpture wrought, 
Each bodying some immortal thought. 
Which o'er that temple of the dead. 
Serene, but solemn beauty shed, 
Have found, like glory's self, a grave 
In time's abyss or Tiber's wave : (4) 
Yet dreams more lofty, and more fair, 
Than art's bold hand hath imaged e'er, 
High thoughts of many a mighty mind. 
Expanding when all else declined. 
In twilight years, when only they 
Recall'd the radiance pass'd away, 
Have made that ancient pile their home, 
Fortress of freedom and of Rome. 

There he, who strove in evil days. 
Again to kindle glory's rays. 
Whose spirit sought a path of light, 
For those dim ages far too bright, 
Crescentius long maintain'd the strife. 
Which closed but with its martyr's life., 
And left the imperial tomb a name, 
A heritage of holier fame. 



66 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



There closed De Brescia's mission high, 

From thence the patriot came to die ; (5) 

And thou, whose Roman soul the last. 

Spoke with the voice of ages past, ((j) 

Whose thoughts so long from earth had fled, 

To mingle with the glorious dead. 

That 'midst the world's degenerate race, 

They vainly sought a dwelling-place. 

Within that house of death didst brood 

O'er visions to thy ruin woo'd. 

Yet worthy of a brighter lot, 

Rienza ! be thy faults forgot ! 

For thou, when all around thee lay 

Chain'd in the slumbers of decay; 

So sunk each heart, that mortal eye 

Had scarce a tear for liberty ; 

Alone, amidst the darkness there, 

Could'st gaze on Rome — yet not despair I (7) 

'Tis morn, and Nature's richest dj'ea 
Are floating o'er Italian skies; 
Tints of transparent lustre shine 
Along the snow-clad Apennine ; 
The clouds have left Soracte's height, 
And yellow Tiber winds in light. 
Where tombs and fallen fanes have strew'd 
The wild Campagna's solitude. 
'Tis sad amidst that scene to trace 
Those relics of a vanish'd race ; 
Yet o'er the ravaged path of time. 
Such glory sheds that brilliant clime. 
Where nature still, though Empires fail, 
Holds her triumphant festival ; 
E'en desolation wears a smile. 
Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while ; 
AndHeaven'sown light. Earth's richest bloom. 
Array the ruin and the tomb. 

But she, who from yon convent tower 
Breathes the pure freshness of the hour ; 
She, whose rich flow of raven hair 
Streams wildly on the morning air; 
Heeds not how fair the scene below, 
Robed in Italia's brightest glow. 
Though throned 'midst Latium's classic plains, 
Th' Eternal City's towers and fanes, 
And they, the Pleiades of earth, 
The seven proud hills of Empire's birth. 
Lie spread beneath : not now her glance 
Roves o'er that vast, sublime e-xpanse ; 
Inspired, and bright with hope, 'tis thrown 
On Hadrian's massy tomb alone; 
There, from the storm, when Freedom fled. 
His faithful few Crescentius led I 
While she, his anxious bride, who now 
Bends o'er the scene her youthful brow, 
Sought refuge in the hallo w'd fane. 
Which then could shelter, not in vain. 
But now the lofty strife is o'er. 
And Liberty shall weep no more. 
At length imperial Otho's voice 
Bids her devoted sons rejoice ; 
And he, who battled to restore 
The glories and the rights of yore. 
Whose accents, like the clarion's sound, 
Could burst the dead repose around, 
Again his native Rome shall see, 
The sceptred city of the free ! 
And young Stephania waits the hour 
When leaves her lord his fortress-tower. 
Her ardent heart with joy elate. 
That seems beyond the reach of fate ; 
Her mien, like creature from above, 
All vivified with hope and love. 

Fair is her form, and in her eye 
Lives all the soul of Italy! 
A meaning lofty and inspired. 
As by her native day-star fired : 
Such wild and high expression, fraught 
With glances of impassion'd thought, 
As fancy sheds in visions bright 
O'er priestess of the God of Light ! 
And the dark locks that lend her face 
A youthful and luxuriant grace. 
Wave o'er her cheek, whose kindling dyes 
Seem from the fire within to rise ; 



But deepen'd by the burning heaven 
To her own land of sunbeams given. 
Italian art that fervid glow 
Would o'er ideal beauty throw, 
And with such ardent life express 
Her high- wrought dreams of loveliness; — 
Dreams which, surviving Empire's fall, 
The shade of glory still recall. 

But see,— the banner of the brave 
O'er Hadrian's tomb hath ceased to wave. 
'Tis lower'd — and now Stephania's eye 
Can well the martial train descry. 
Who, issuing from that ancient dome. 
Pour through the crowded streets of Rome. 
Now from her watch-tower on the height, 
With step as fabled wood-nymphs light, 
She flies — and swift her way pursues 
Through the lone convent's avenues. 
Dark cypress-groves, and fields o'erspread 
With records of the conquering dead, 
And paths which track a glowing waste, 
She traverses in breathless haste : 
And by the tombs where dust is shrined, 
Once tenanted by loftiest mind. 
Still passing on, hath reach'd the gate 
Of Rome, the proud, the desolate ! 
Throng'd are the streets, and still renew'd, 
Rush on the gathering multitude. 

Is it their high-soul'd chief to greet, 
That thus the Roman thousands meet ? 
With names that bid their thoughts ascend, 
Crescentius, thine in song to blend ; 
And of triumphal days gone by 
Recall th' inspiring pageantry? 
—There is an air of breathless dread, 
An eager glance, a hurrying tread; 
And now a fearful silence round. 
And now a fitful murmuring sound, 
'Midst the pale crowds, that almost seem 
Phantoms of some tumultuous dream. 
Quick is each step, and wild each mien, 
Portentous of some awful scene. 
Bride of Crescentius I as the throng 
Bore thee with whelming force along, 
How did thine anxious heart beat high, 
Till rose suspense to agony! 
Too brief suspense, that soon shall close. 
And leave thy heart to deeper woes. 

Who 'midst yon guarded precinct stands, 
With fearless mien, but fetter'd hands? 
The ministers of death are nigh. 
Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye ; 
And in his glance there lives a mind, 
Which was not forra'd for chains to bind, 
But cast in such heroic mould 
As theirs, th' ascendant ones of old. 
Crescentius! freedom's daring son. 
Is this the guerdon thou hast won ? 
O worthy to have lived and died 
In the bright days of Latium's pride ! 
Thus must the beam of glory close. 
O'er the seven hills again that rose. 
When at thy voice to burst the yoke. 
The soul of Rome indignant woke? 
Vain dream ! the sacred shields are gone, (8) 
Sunk is the crowning city's throne : (9) 
Th' illusions that around her cast 
Their guardian spells have long been past. (10) 
Thy life hath been a shot star's ray, 
Shed o'er her midnight of decay; 
Thy death at freedom's ruin'd shrine 
Must rivet every chain— but thine. 

Calm is his aspect, and his eye 
Now fix'd upon the deep-blue sky. 
Now on those wrecks of ages fled. 
Around in desolation spread; 
Arch, temple, column, worn and gray 
Recording triumphs pass'd away; 
Works of the mighty and the free. 
Whose steps on earth no more shall be, 
Though their bright course hath left a trace 
Nor years nor sorrows can efiace. 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



67 



Why changes now the patriot's mien, 

Erewhile so loftily serene ? 

Thus can approaching death control 

The might of that commanding soul ? 

No ! — Heard ye not that thrilling cry 

Which told of bitterest agony? 

He heard it, and, at once subdued. 

Hath sunk the hero's fortitude, 

He heard it, and his heart too well 

Whence rose that voice of woe can tell ; 

And 'midst the gazing throngs around 

One well-known form.his glance hath found ; 

One fondly loving and beloved, 

In grief, in peril, faithful proved. 

Yes, in the wildness of despair. 

She, his devoted bride, is there. 

Pale, breathless, through the crowd she flies, 

The light of frenzy in her eyes : 

But ere her arms can clasp the form, 
Which life ere long must cease to warm ; 
Ere on his agonizing breast 
Her heart can heave, her head can rest; 
Check'd in her course by ruthless hands, 
Mute, motionless, at once she stands; 
With bloodless cheek and vacant glance, 
Frozen and tix'd in horror's trance ; 
Spell-bound, as every sense were fled. 
And thought o'erwhelm'd, and feeling dead. 
And the light waving of her hair, 
And veil, far floating on the air. 
Alone, in that dread moment, show. 
She is no sculptured form of woe. 

The scene of grief and death is o'er. 
The patriot's heart shall throb no more ; 
But hers — so vainly form'd to prove 
The pure devotedness of love. 
And draw from fond affection's eye 
All thought sublime, all feeling high; 
When consciousness again shall wake. 
Hath now no refuge — but to break. 
The spirit long inured to pain 
May smile at fate in calm disdain ; 
Survive its darkest hour, and rise 
In more majestic energies. 
But in the glow of vernal pride. 
If each warm hope at once hath died. 
Then sinks the mind, a blighted flower, 
Dead to the sunbeam and the shower ; 
A broken gem, whose inborn light 
Is scatter'd— ne'er to reunite. 



PART II. 



Hast thou a scene that is not spread 
With records of thy glory fled ? 
A monument that doth not tell 
The tale of liberty's farewell ? 
Italia! thou art but a grave 
Where flowers lu.xiiriate o'er the brave. 
And Nature gives her treasures birth 
O'er all that Iiath been great on earth. 
Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled. 
When thou wert Freedom's favour'd child : 
Though fane and tomb alike are low, 
Time hath not dimm'd thy sunbeam's glow ; 
And robed in that exulting ray. 
Thou seem'st to triumph o'er decay ; 
O yet, though by thy sorrows bent. 
In nature's pomp magnificent; 
What marvel if, when all was lost. 
Still on thy bright enchanted coast. 
Though many an omen warn'd him thence, 
Linger'd the lord of eloquence ! (11) 
Still gazing on the lovely sky. 
Whose radiance woo'd him — but to die : 
Like him, who would not linger there. 
Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair? 
Who 'midst thy glowing scenes could dwell. 
Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell 7 
Hath not thy pure and genial air 
Balm for all sadness but despair ? (12) 
No! there are pangs, whose deep- worn trace 
Not all thy magic can efface ! 



Hearts, by unkindness wrung, may learn 
The world and all its gifts to spurn ; 
Time may steal on with silent tread. 
And dry the tear that mourns the dead ; 
May change fond love, subdue regret. 
And teach e'en vengeance to forget : 
But thou, Remorse ! there is no charm 
Thy sting, avenger, to disarm ! 
Vain are bright suns, and laughing skiesy 
To soothe thy victim's agonies : 
The heart once made thy burning throne, 
Still, while it beats, is thine alone. 

In vain for Otho's joyless eye 
Smile the fair scenes of Italy, 
As through her landscapes' rich array 
Th' imperial pilgrim bends his way. 
Thy form, Crescentius, on his sight 
Rises when nature laughs in light. 
Glides round him at the midnight hour, 
Is present in his festal bower. 
With awful voice and frowning mien, 
By all but him unheard, unseen. 
Oh! thus to shadows of the grave 
Be every tyrant still a slave ! 

Where through Gargano's woody dells. 
O'er bending oaks the norUi-wind swells, (13) 
A sainted hermit's lowly tomb 
Is bosom'd in umbrageous gloom. 
In shades that saw him live and die 
Beneath their waving canopy. 
'Twas his, as legends tell, to share 
The converse of immortals there ; 
Around that dweller of the wild 
There " bright appearances" have smiled, (14) 
And angel-wings, at eve, have been. 
Gleaming the shadowy boughs between. 
And oft from that secluded bower 
Hath breathed, at midnight's calmer hour, 
A swell of viewless harps, a sound 
Of warbled anthems pealing round. 
Oh, none but voices of tlie sky 
Might wake that thrilling harmony, 
Whose tones, whose very echoes, made 
An Eden of the lonely shade ! 

Years have gone by ; the hermit sleeps 
Amidst Gargano's woods and steeps ! 
Ivy and flowers have half o'ergrown 
And veil'd his low, sepulchral stone 
Yet still the spot is holy, still 
Celestial footsteps haunt the hill ; 
And oft the awe-struck mountaineer 
Aerial vesper-hymns may hear 
Around those forest-precincts float, 
Soft, solemn, clear, — but still remote. 
Oft will affliction breathe her plaint 
To that rude shrine's departed saint. 
And deem that spirits of the blest 
There shed sweet influence o'er her breast. 

And thither Otho now i-epairs. 
To soothe his soul with vows and prayers j 
And if for him, on holy ground. 
The lost one. Peace, may yet be found, 
'Midst rocks and forests, by the bed 
Where calmly sleep the sainted dead, 
She dwells, remote from heedless eye, 
With Nature's lonely majesty. 

Vain, vain the search— his troubled breast 
Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest ; 
The weary pilgrimage is o'er. 
The hopes that cheer'd it are no more. 
Then sinks his soul, and day by day, 
Youth's buoyant energies decay. 
The light of health his eye hath flown. 
The glow that tinged his cheek is gone. 
Joyless as one on whom is laid 
Some baleful spell that bids him fade, 
Extending its mysterious power 
O'er every scene, o'er every hour; 
E'en thus he withers ; and to him, 
Italia's brilliant skies are dim. 
He withers— in that glorious clime 
Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time ; 



68 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



And suns, that shed on all below 
Their full and vivifying glow. 
From him alone their power withhold, 
And leave his heart in darkness cold. 
Earth blooms around him. heaven is fair. 
He only seems to perish there. 

Yet sometimes will a transient smile 
Play o'er his faded cheek awhile. 
When breathes his minstrelboy a strain 
Of power to lull all earthly pain ; 
So wildly sweet, its notes might seem 
Th' ethereal music of a dream, 
A spirit's voice from worlds unknown. 
Deep thrilling power in every tone I 
Sweet is that lay, and yet its flow 
Hath language only given to woe; 
And if at times its wakening swell 
Some tale of glory seems to tell. 
Soon the proud notes of triumph die, 
Lost in a dirge's harmony : 
Oh ! many a pang the heart hath proved. 
Hath deeply suffer'd, fondly loved. 
Ere the sad strain could catch from thence 
Such deep impassion'd eloquence ! 
Yes I gaze on him, that minstrel-boy — 
He is no child of hope and joy ; 
Though few his years, yet have they been 
Such as leave traces on the mien. 
And o'er the roses of our prime 
Breathe other blights than those of time 

Yet, seems his spirit wild and proud, 
By grief unsoften'd and unbow'd. 
Oh ! there are sorrows which impart 
A sternness foreign to the heart. 
And rushing with an earthquake's power, 
That makes a desert in an hour ; 
Rouse the dread passions in their course, 
As tempests wake the billows' force !— 
'Tis sad on youthful Guido's face. 
The stamp of woes like these to trace. 
Oh I where can ruins awe mankind 
Dark as the ruins of the mind ? 

His mien is lofty but his gaze 
Too well a wandering soul betrays: 
His full, dark eye at times is bright 
With strange and momentary light. 
Whose quick uncertain flashes throw 
O'er his pale cheek a hectic glow : 
And oft his features and his air 
A shade of troubled mystery wear, 
A glance of hurried wildness, fraught 
With some unfathomable thought. 
Whate'er that thought, still, unexpress'd, 
Dwells the sad secret in his breast ; 
The pride his haughty brow reveals. 
All other passion well conceals. 
He breathes each wounded feeling's tone 
In music's eloquence alone r 
His soul's deep voice is only pour'd 
Through his full song and swelling chord. 
He seeks no friend, but shuns the train 
Of courtiers with a proud disdain ; 
And, save when Otho bids his lay 
Its half unearthly power essay. 
In hall or bower the heart to thrill, 
His haunts are wild and lonely still. 
Far distant from the heedless throng. 
He roves old Tiber's banks along. 
Where Empire's desolate remains 
Lie scattered o'er the silent plains; 
Or, lingering 'midst each ruin'd shrine 
That strews the desert Palatine, 
With mournful, yet commanding mien, 
Like the sad Genius of the scene. 
Entranced in awful thought appears 
To commune with departed years. 
Or at the dead of night, when Rome 
Seems of heroic shades the home ; 
When Tiber's murmuring voice recalls 
The mighty to their ancient halls ; 
When hush'd is every meaner sound. 
And the deep moonlight-calm around 
Leaves to the solemn scene alone 
Tile majesty of ages flown ; 



A pilgrim to each hero's tomb. 
He wanders through the sacred gloom ; 
And, 'midst those dwellings of decay. 
At times will breathe so sad a lay. 
So wild a grandeur in each tone, 
'Tis like a dirge for empires gone ! 

Awake thy pealing harp again. 
But breathe a more exulting strain, 
Young Guido! for awhile forgot, 
Be the dark secrets of thy lot, 
And rouse th' inspiring soul of song 
To speed the banquet's hour along! 
The feast is spread; and music's call 
Is echoing through the royal hall. 
And banners wave, and trophies shine, 
O'er stately guests in glittering line ; 
And Otho seeks awhile to chase 
The thoughts he never can erase. 
And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep 
Rise like a spirit on his sleep. 
The still small voice of conscience die. 
Lost in the din of revelry. 
On his pale brow dejection lowers. 
But that shall yield to festal hours; 
A gloom is in his faded eye. 
But that from music's power shall fly : 
His wasted cheek is wan with care. 
But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there. 
Wake, Guido! wake thy numbers high, 
Strike the bold chord exultingly! 
And pour upon th' enraptured ear 
Such strains as warriors love to hear I 
Let the rich mantling goblet flow. 
And banish all resembling woe ; 
And, if a thought intrude, of power 
To mar the bright convivial hour. 
Still must its influence lurk unseen. 
And cloud the heart— but not the mien ! 

Away, vain dream!— on Otho's brow 
Still darker lowers the shadows now; 
Changed are his features, now o'erspread 
With the cold paleness of the dead ; 
Now crimson'd with a hectic dye. 
The burning flush of agony I 
His lip is quivering, and his breast 
Heaves, with convulsive pangs oppress'd; 
Now his dim eye seems fix'd and glazed. 
And now to heaven in anguish raised ; 
And as, with unavailing aid. 
Around him throng his guests dismay'd, 
He sinks— while scarce his struggling breath 
Hath power to falter— "This is death !" 

Then rush'd that haughty child of song. 
Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng; 
Filt'd with a strange delirious light. 
His kindling eye shone wildly bright. 
And on the sufferer's mien awile 
Gazing with stern vindictive smile, 
A feverish glow of triumph dyed 
His burning cheek, while thus he cried: — 
"Yes! these are death-pangs — on thy brow 
Is set the seal of vengeance now I 
Oh ! well was mix'd the deadly draught, 
And long and deeply hast thou quaffd ; 
And bitter as thy pangs may be. 
They are but guerdons meet from me ! 
Yet, these are but a moment's throes, 
Howe'er intense, they soon shall close. 
Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath, 
Mij life hath been a lingering death ; 
Since one dark hour of woe and crime, 
A blood-spot on the page of time ! 

"Deem'st thou my mind of reason void? 
It is not phrenzied, — but destroy'd ! 
Ay! view the wreck with shuddering thought, — 
That work of ruin thou hast wrought ! 

" The secret of thy doom to tell. 
My name alone suffices well ! 
Stephania ! once a hero's bride ! 
Otho ! thou know'st the rest — he died. 
Yes ! trusting to a monarch's word. 
The Roman fell, untried, unheard ! 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



69 



And thou, whose every pledge was vain, 
How couldst tliou trust in aught again ? 

" He died, and I was changed— my soul, 
A lonely wanderer, spurn'd control. 
From peace, and light, and glory hurl'd, 
The outcast of a purer world, 
I saw each brighter hope o'erthrown. 
And lived for one dread task alone. 
The task is closed— fulfill'd the vow. 
The hand of death is on thee now. 
Betrayer! in thv turn betray'd. 
The debt of blood shall soon be paid ! 
Tliine hour is come— the time hath been 
My heart had shrunk from such a scene; 
That feeling long is past— my fate 
Hath made me stern as desolate. 

" Ye, that around me shuddering stand, 
Ye chiefs and princes of the land ! 
Mourn ye a guilty monarch's doom ? 
— Ye wept not o'er the patriot's tomb? 
He sleeps unhonour'd— yet be mine 
To share his low, neglected shrine. 
His soul with freedom linds a home. 
His grave is that of glory— Rome ! 
Are not the great of old with her, 
That city of the sepulchre ? 
Lead me to death ! and let me share 
The slumbers of the mighty there !" 

The day departs— that fearful day 
Fades in calm loveliness away ; 
From purple heavens its lingering beam 
Seems melting into Tiber's stream. 
And softly tints each Roman hill 
With glowing light, as clear and still, 
As if, unstain'd by crime or woe. 
Its hours had pass'd in silent flow. 
The day setscalraly— it hath been 
Mark'd with a strange and awful scene ; 
One guilty bosom throbs no more. 
And Otho's pangs and life are o'er. 
And thou, ere yet another sun 
His burning race hath brightly run. 
Released from anguish by thy foes. 
Daughter of Rome I shalt find repose.— 
Yes ! on thy country's lovely sky 
Fix yet once more thy parting eye ! 
A few short hours — and all shall be 
The silent and the past for thee. 
Oh! thus with tempests of a day 
We struggle, and we pass away. 
Like the wild billows as they sweep, 
Leaving no vestige on the deep ! 
And o'er thy dark and lowly bed 
The sons of future days shall tread. 
The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot. 
By them unknown, by thee forgot. 



NOTES. 

Note 1. 

(Ter Hadrianh mouldering viUa twine. 
" J'etais alle passer quelques jours seul a Tivoli. Je parcoums es 
environs, et surtout celles de la Villa Adriana. Surpris par la pluie 
au milieu de ma course, je me refugiai dans les Salles des Thermcs 
voisins du Pecile (monumeD3 de la villa), sous un figuier qui avait 
renverse le pan d'un mur en s'elevaut. Dans un petit salon octo- 
g;one, ouvert devant moi, une vigne vierge avait perce la voute de 
I'edifice, et son gros cep lisse, rouge, et tortneux, montait le long du 
tnur comme un serpent. Autour de moi, a travers les arcades des 
ruines, s'ouvraient des points de vue sur la Campagne Romaine. 
Des buissons de sureau remplissaient les salles desertes ou venaient 
se refugier quelques merles solitaires. Les fragmens de maconnerie 
etaient tapisses des feuillea de scolopendre, dont la verdure salinee se 
dessinait comme un travail en mosaique sur la blancheur des mar- 
bres: ca et la de hauts cypres remplacaient les colonnes tombees 
dans ces palais de la Mort ; I'acanthe sauvage rampait a leurs pieds, 
sur des debris, comme si la nature s'etait plu a reproduire sur ces 
chefs-d'oeuvre mutile d'architecture, Tornament de leur beaute ipss- 
see.^'— Chateaubriand. Souvenirs d'Ualie. 

Note 2. 

Of each irrvperial monument. 

The gardens and buildings of Hadrian's villa were copies of the 

most celebrated scenes and edifices in his dominions; the Lyceum. 

the Academia, the Prytaneum of Athens, the Temple of Serapis at 

Alexandria, the Vale of Tempe, &c. 



Note 3. 

Sun\ is thy palace, but thy tornb^ 
Hadrian I hath shartd a iprouder doom. 
The mausoleum of Hadrian, now the castle of St. Angelo, W33 
first converted into a citadel by Belisarius, in his successful defence 
of Rome against the Goths. " The lover of the arts," says Gibbon, 
'• must read with a sigh, that the works of Praxiteles and Lysippus 
were torn from their lofty pedestals, and hurled into the ditch on the 
heads of the besiegers." He adds, in a note, that the celebrated 
Sleeping Faun of the Barbarini palace was found, in a mutilated 
state, when the ditch of St. Angelo was cleansed under Urban VIH. 
In the middle ages, the moles Hadriani was made a permanent for- 
tress by the Roman government, and bastions, outworks, &c. were 
added to the original edifice, which had been stripped of its marble 
covering, its Corinthian pillars, and the braieo cone which crowned 
its summit. 

Note A. 



" Les plus beaux monumens des arts, les plus admirables statues 
ont etes jetees dans le Tibre, et sont cachees sous ses flots. Qui sail 
si. pour les chercher, on ne le detournera pas un jour de son lit? 
Mais quand on songe que les clief-d'ceuvres du genie huniain sont 
peut-etre la devant nous, et qu'un ceil plus percant les verrait a tra- 
vers les ondes, I'on eprouve je ne sais quelle emotion qui renait a 
Rome sans cesse sous diverses formes, et fait trouver une societe 
pour la pensee dans les objets physiques, muets partout ailleurs."— 
Mad. de, Staet. 

Note 5. 

There closed De Brescia''s mission high, 
From thence the patriot came to die. 
Arnold de Brescia, the undaunted and eloquent champion of Ro 
man liberty, after unremitting efforts lo restore the ancient constitu 
tion of the republic, was put to death in the year 1155, by Adrian 
rv. This event is thus described by Sismondi, Histoire des Repub- 
liqites Italiemies, vol. ii. pages 68 and 69. " Le prefect demeura 
dans le chateau Saint Ange avec son prisonnier; il le fit transporter 
un matin' sur la place destinee aus executions, devant la Porte du 
Peuple. Amaud de Brescia, eleve sur un bucher, fut attache a ua 
poteau, en face du Corso. II pouvoit mesurer des yeus leg trois 
longues rues qui aboutissoient devant son echafaud j elles font prea- 
qu'une moitie de Rome. C'est la qu'habitoient les hommes qu'il 
avoit si souvent appeles a la liberie. lis reposoient encore en paix, 
ignorant le danger de leur legislateur. Le tumulte de I'execution et 
la flamme du bucher reveillerent les Rnmains; ils s'armerent, Jls 
accoururent, mais trop tard ; et les cohorles du pape repousserent, 
avec leur lances, ceux qui, n'ayant pu sauver Amaud, vouloient du 
moins recueillir ses cendres comme de precieuses reliques." 

Note 6. 
Spoke with the voice of ages past. 
"Posterity will compare the virtues and failings of this extraor- 
dinary man ; but in a long period of anarchy and servitude the name 
of Rienzi has often been celebrated as the deliverer of his country, 
and the last of the Roman patriots."— Giifion'^ Decline and Fall, 
&c. vol. xii. p. 362. 

Note 7. 
Couldst gaze on Rome— yet not despair .' 
" Le consul Terentius Varron avoit fui honteusement jusqu'a Ve- 
nouse : cet homme de la plus basse naissance, n'avoit ete eleve au 
consulat que pour mortlfier la noblesse : mais le senat ne voulut pas 
jouir de ce malheureux triomphe ; il vit combien il etoit necessaire 
qu'il s'attirat dans cette occasion la confiance du peuple, il alia au- 
devant Varron, et le remercia de ce quHl n^avoit pas desespere de la 
republique." — Mo7Uesquieu. Grandeur et Decadence des Romains. 

Note 8. 
Vain dream ! the sacred shields are gone. 
Of the sacred bucklers, or ancilia of Rome, which were kept in 
the temple of Mars, Plutarch gives the following account. " In the 
eighth year of Numa's reign a pestilence prevailed in Italy ; Rome 
also felt its ravages. While the people were greatly dejected, we 
are told that a brazen buckler fell from heaven into the hands of 
Numa. Of this he gave a very wonderful account, received from 
Egeria and the Muses : that the buckler was sent down for the pre- 
servation of the city, and should be kept with ^eat care; that 
eleven others should be made as like it as possible in size and 
fashion, in order that if any person were disposed to steal it, he 
might not be able to distinguish that which fell from heaven from 
the rest. He further declared, that the place, and the meadows about 
it, where he frequently conversed with the Muses, should be conse- 
crated to those divinities; and that the spring which watered the 
ground should be sacred to the use of the Vestal Virgins, daily to 
sprinkle and purify their temple. The immediate cessation of the 
pestilence is said lo have confinned the truth of this account."— 
Life of Numa. 

Note 9. 

Sunk is the crowning city^s throne. 
" Who hath taken this counsel against Tyre, the crowning cHy,, 
whose merchants are princes, whose traffickers are the honoarabis 
of the earth V— Isaiah, chap, xxiii. 

Note 10. 

Their guardian spells have long teen past. 
" Un melange bizarre de j^ndeur d'ame, et de foiblesse entrof! 
des cette epoque (I'onzieme siecle) dans le caractere des Romains. — 
Un mouvement genereux vers les grandes choses faisoit place tout-a- 
coup a I'abattement ; ils passoient de la liberie la plus orageuse, a la 
servitude la plus aviltssante. On auroit dil que les raines et lea 



70 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



portiques deserts de la capitale du monde, entretenoient ses habitans 
dans les sentiment de leur impuissance ; au milieu de ces monumens 
de leur domination passee, les citoyens eprouvoient d'une maniere 
trop decourageante leur propre nullite. Le nom des Romains qu'ils 
portoient ranimoit frequemment leur enthousiasme, comme il le ra- 
nime encore aujourd'hui j mais bientot la vue de Rome, du Forum 
desert, des sept collines de nouveau rendues au patura^e des trou- 
peaux, des temples desoles, des monumens tombant en rume, les ra* 
Dienoit a sentir qu'ils n'etoient plus les Romains d'autrefois." — Si3- 
Tnondi, Histoire des Republiques ItalienneSj vol. i. p. 172. 

Note 11. 

Lingered the lord of eloquence ? 
"As for Cicero,' he was carried to Astyra, where, finding a vessel, 
he immediately went on board, and coasted along to CircKum with 
a favourable wind. The pilots were preparing immediately to sail 
from thence, but whether it was that he feared the sea, or had not 
yet given up all his hopes in Cwsar, he disembarked, and travelled 
a hundred furlongs on foot, as if Rome had been the place of his 
destination. Repenting, however, afterwards, he left that road and 
made again for the sea. He passed the night in the most perplexing 
and horrid thoughts ; insomuch, that he was sometimes inclined to 
go privately into Caesar's house and stab himself upon the altar of 
his domestic gods, to bring the divine vengeance upon bis betrayer. 
But he was deterred from Ibis by the fear of torture. Other alterna- 
tives equally distressful presented themselves. At last he put him- 
self in the hands of his servants, and ordered them to carry him by 
sea to Cajela, where he had a delightful retreat in the summer, when 
the Etesian winds set in. There was a temple of Apollo on that 
coast, from which a fHght of crows came with great noise towards 
Cicero's vessel as it was making land. They perched on both sides 
the sail-yard, where some sat croaking, and others pecking the ends 
of the ropes. All looked upon this as an ill omen ; yet Cicero went 
on shore, and, entering his house, lay down to repose himself. In 
the mean time a number of crows settled in the chamber-window, 
and croaked in the most doleful manner. One of them even entered 
it, and alighting on the bed, attempted, with its beak, to draw olf 
the clothes with which he had covered his face. On sight of this, 
the servants began to reproach themselves. * Shall we,' said they, 
* remain to be spectators of our master's murder ? Shall we not pro- 
tect him, so innocent and so great a sufferer as he is, when the brute 
creatures give him marks of their care and attention?' Then, partly 
by entreaty, partly by force, they got him into his litter, and carried 
him towards the sea.."— Plutarch. Life of Cicero. 

Note 13. 
Balm for all sadness bid despair f" 
" Now purer air 
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires 
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive 
All sadness but despair." — Milton, 

Note 13. 
O'er bending oais the north-wind swells. 
Mount Gargano. " This ridge of mountains forms a very large 
promontory advancing into the Adriatic, and separated from the 
Apennines on the west by the plains of Lucera and San Severo. We 
took a ride into the heart of the mountains through shady dells and 
noble woods, which brought to our minds the venerable groves that 
in ancient times bent with the loud winds sweeping along the rugged 
sides of Garganus. 

*Aquilonibus 
Querceta Gargani laborant, 
Et foliis viduantur orni.'— flbrace. 
There is a respectable forest of evergreen and common oak, pine, 
hornbeam, chestnut, and manna-ash. The sheltered valleys are in- 
dustriously cultivated, and seem to be blest with luxuriant vegeta- 
tion." — Swinburne's Travels. 

Note 14. 

There " brigitt appearances" ?iave smiled. 
In yonder nether world where shall I seek 
His bright appearances, or footstep trace ?" — Milton. 



THE LAST BANQUET 



^utoiij) aiiti ^leoijatra- 



' Antony, conclutJing that he could not die more hon- 
ourably than in battle, determined to attack Ctesarat 
the same time both by sea and land. The night pre- 
ceding the e.tecution of this design, he ordered his 
servants at supper to render him their best services 
that evening, and fill the wine round plentifully, for 
the day following Ihey might belong to another mas- 
ter, whilst he lay extended on the ground, no longer of 
consequence either to them or to himself. His friends 
were affected, and wept to hear him talk thus ; which 
when he perceived, he encouraged them by assu- 
rances that his expectations of a glorious victory 
were at least equal to those of an honourable death. 



At the dead of night, when universal silence reigned 
through the city, a silence that was deepened by the 
awful thought of the ensuing day, on a sudden was 
heard the sound of musical instruments, and a noise 
which resembled the exclamations of Bacchanals. 
This tumultuous procession seemed to pass through 
the whole city, and to go out at the gate which led 
to the enemy's camp. Those who reflected on this 
prodigy concluded that Bacchus, the god whom An- 
tony atfected to imitate, had then forsaken him." 

Langhorne' s Plutarch. 



Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array, 

O stately Alexandria ! — yet the sound 
Of mirth and music, at the close of day, 

Sweird from thy splendid fabrics far around 
O'er camp and wave. Within the royal hall, 

In gay magnificence the feast was spread ; 
And brightly streaming from the pictured wall, 

A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shed 
O'er many a column rich with trembling dyes. 
That tinge the marble's vein, 'neath Afric's burn- 
ing skies. 

And soft and clear that wavering radiance play'd 
O'er sculptured forms that round the pillar'd 
scene 
Calm and majestic rose, by art array'd 

In god-like beauty, awfully serene. 
Oh ! how unlike the troubled guests, reclined 

Round that luxurious board ! — in every face, 
Some shadow from the tempest of the mind 

Rising by fits, the searching eye might trace 
Though vainly mask'd in smiles which are not 

mirth. 
But the proud spirit's veil thrown o'er the woes of 
earth. 

Their brows are bound with wreaths whose tran- 
sient bloom 

May still survive the wearers— and the rose 
Perchance may scarce be wither'd when the tomb 

Receives the mighty to its dark repose ! 
The day must dawn on battle — and may set 

In death — but fill the mantling wine-cup high! 
Despair is fearless, and the Fates e'en yet 

Lend her one hour for parting revelry. 
They who the empire of the world possess'd 
Would taste its joys again, ere all exchanged for 
rest. 

Its joys! oh ! mark yon proud triumvir's mien, 

And read their annals on that brow of care ! 
'Midst pleasure's lotus-bowers his steps have been 

Earth's brightest pathway led him to despair. 
Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspire 

The buoyant energies of days gone by; 
There is delusion in its meteor-fire, 

And all within is shame, is agony! 
Away! the tear in bitterness may flow. 
But there are smiles which bear a stampof deeper 
woe. 

Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame, 

6 lost, devoted Roman ! yet thy brow 
To that ascendant and undying name. 

Pleads with stern loftiness thy right e'en now. 
Thy glory is departed— but hath left 

A lingering light around thee— in decay 
Not less than kingly, though of all bereft. 

Thou seem'st as empire had not pass'd away. 
Supreme in ruin ! teaching hearts elate, 
A deep, prophetic dread of still mysterious fate I 

But thou, enchantress-queen ! whose love hath 
made 

His desolation — thou art by his side. 
In all thy sovereignty of charms array'd, 

To meet the storm with still unconquer'd pride- 
Imperial being ! e'en though many a stain 

Of error be upon thee, there is power 
In thy commanding nature, which shall reign 

O'er the stern genius of misfortune's liour; 
And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye 
E'en now is all illumined with wild sublimity! 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



71 



Thine aspect all impassion'd weara a light 

Inspiring and inspired— tliy cheek a dye, 
Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright 

With the deep glow of feverish energy. 
Proud siren of the Nile ! thy glance is fraught 

With an immortal tire— in every beam 
It darts, there kindles some heroic thought. 

But wild and awful as a sibyl's dream; 
For thou with death hast communed, to attain 
Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from 
the chain. (1) 

And the stern courage by such musings lent, 

Daughter of Afric ! o'er thy beauty throws 
The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent 

With all the majesty of mighty woes ! 
While he so fondly, fatally adored. 

Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet. 
Till scarce the soul, that once exulting soar'd, 

Can deem the day-star of its glory set ; 
Scarce his charm'd heart believes that power can be 
In sovereign fate, o'er him, thus fondly loved by 
thee. 

But there is sadness in the eyes around. 

Which mark that ruin'd leader, and survey 
His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom pro- 
found 

Strange triumph chases haughtily away. 
" Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests !" he cries, 

"(iuaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep! 
Ere sunset gild once more the western skies. 

Your chief in cold forgetfulness may sleep, 
While sounds of revel float o'er shore and sea. 
And the red bowl again iscrown'd— butnot forme. 

" Yet weep not thus— the struggle is not o'er, 

O victors of Philippi! many a field 
Hath yielded palms to us : — one effort more. 

By one stern conflict must our doom be seal'd ! 
Forget not, Romans ! o'er a subject world 

How royally your eagle's wing hath spread, 
Though from his eyrie of dominion huri'd. 

Now bursts the tempest on his crested head ; 
Yet sovereign still, if banish'd from the sky. 
The sun's indignant bird, he must not droop — but 
die." 

The feast is o'er. 'T is night, the dead of night- 
Unbroken stillness broods o'er earth and deep; 

From Egypt's heaven of soft and starry light 
The moon looks cloudless o'er a world of sleep: 

For those who wait the morn's awakening beams. 
The battle signal to decide their doom. 

Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams; 
Rest, that shall soon be calmer in the tomb. 

Dreams, dark and ominous, but there to cease. 

When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace. 

Wake, slumberers, wake ! Hark ! heard ye not a 
sound 
Of gathering tumult?— near and nearer still 
Its murmur swells. Above, below, around 
Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and 
shrill. 
Wake, Alexandria! through thy streets the tread 

Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note 
Of pipe, and lyre, and trumpet, wild and dread 

Is heard upon the midnight air to float ; 
And voices, clamorous as in frenzied mirth. 
Mingle their thousand tones which are not of the 
earth. 

These are no mortal sounds— their thrilling strain 

Hath more mysterious power, and birth more 
high : 
And the deep horror chilling every vein 

Owns them of stern, terrific augury. 
Beings of worlds unknown ! ye pass away, 

O ye invisible and awful throng! 
Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay 

To Caesar's camp exulting move along. 
Thy gods forsake thee, Antony! the sky 
By that dread sign reveals— thy doom— " Despair 
and die !" (2) 



NOTES. 

Note 1. 
Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the chain, 
Cleopatra made a collection of poiBonoua drugs, and being desirous 
to ascertain which was least painful in the operation, she tried 
them on the capital convicts. Such poisons as were quick in their 
operation, she found to be attended with violent pain and convul- 
sions ; such as were mildest were slow in their elfect : she therefore 
applied herself to the examination of venomous creatures ; at length 
she found that the bite of the asp was the most el igible kind of death, 
for it brought on a gradual kind of lethargy.— See Plutarch. 

Note 2. 
Despair and die! 
" To-morrow in the battle think on me, 
And fall thy edgeless swoid j despair and die !" 

Richard lit 



^laric III Italj). 



After describing the conquest of Greece and Italy by the 
German and Scythian hordes, united under the com- 
mand of Alaric, the historian of " The Decline and 
Fall of the Roman Empire" thus proceeds :—" Whe- 
ther fame, or conquest, or riches, were the object of 
Alaric, he pursued that object with an indefatigable 
ardour, which could neither be quelled by adversity, 
nor satiated by success. No sooner had he reached 
the extreme land of Italy, than he was attracted by 
the neighbouring prospect of a fair and peaceful island. 
Yet even the possession of Sicily he considered only 
as an intermediate step to the important expedition 
which he already meditated against the continent of 
Africa. The straits of Rhegium and Messina are 
twelve miles in length, and, in the narrowest passage, 
about one mile and a half broad ; and the fabulous 
monsters of the deep, the rocks of Scylla, and the 
whirlpool of Charybdis, could terrify none but the most 
timid and unskilful mariners: yet, as soon as the first 
division of the Goths had embarked, a sudden tempest 
arose, which sunk or scattered many of the transports: 
their courage was daunted by the terrors of a new ele- 
ment ; and the whole design was defeated by the pre- 
mature death of Alaric, which fixed, after a short ill- 
ness, the fatal term of his conquests. The ferocious 
character of the barbarians was displayed in the fune- 
ral of a hero, whose valour and fortune they celebrated 
with mournful applause. By the labour of a captive 
multitude they forcibly diverted the course of the Bu- 
sentinus, a small river that washes the walls of Con- 
sentia. The royal sepulchre, adorned with the splen- 
did spoils and trophies of Rome, was constructed in 
the vacant bed ; the waters were then restored to their 
natural channel, and the secret spot, where the remains 
of Alaric had been deposited, was forever concealed 
by the inhuman massacre of the prisoners who had 
been employed to execute the work."— See The De- 
cline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. v. p. 329. 



Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast ? 
The march of hosts, as Alaric pass'd? 
His steps have track'd that glorious clime, 
The birth-place of heroic time; 
But he, in northern deserts bred, 
Spared not the living for the dead, (1) 
Nor heard the voice, whose pleading cries 
From temple and from tomb arise. 
He pass'd — the light of burning fanes 
Hath been his torch o'er Grecian plains; 
And woke they not — the brave, the free, 
To guard their own Thermopyla;? 
And left they not their silent dwelling. 
When Scythia's note of war was swelling? 
No! where the bold Three Hundred slept, 
Sad Freedom battled not— but wept! 
For nerveless then the Spartan's hand, 
And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band; 



72 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



Nor one high soul from slumber broke, 
When Athens own'd the northern yoke. 

But was there none for thee to dare 
The conflict, scorning to despair ? 
O city of the seven proud hills ! 
Whose name e'en yet the spirit thrills, 
As doth a clarion's battle-call, 
Didst thou too, ancient empress, fall? 
Did not Camillusfrom the chain 
Eansom thy Capitol again ? 
Oh ! who shall tell the days to be, 
No patriot rose to bleed for thee ? 

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast f 
The march of hosts, as Alaric pass'd? 
That fearful sound, at midnight deep, (2) 
Burst on th' eternal city's sleep: 
How woke the mighty ? She, whose will 
So long had bid tlie world be still, 
Her sword a sceptre, and her eye 
Th' ascendant star of destiny ! 
She woke — to view the dread array 
Of Scythians rushing to their prey, 
To hear her streets resound the cries 
Pour'd from a thousand agonies ! 
While the strange light of flames, that gave 
A ruddy glow to Tiber's wave, 
Bursting in that terrific hour 
From fane and palace, dome and tower, 
Reveal'd the throngs, for aid divine 
Clinging to many a worshipp'd shrine , 
Pierce, fitful radiance wildly shed 
O'er spear and sword with carnage red. 
Shone o'er the suppliant and the flying, 
And kindled pyres for Romans dying. 

Weep, Italy ! alas ! that e'er 
Should tears alone thy wrongs declare ! 
The time hath been when thy distress 
Had roused up empires for redress ! 
Now, her long race of glory run. 
Without a combat Rome is won, 
And from her plunder'd temples forth 
Rush the fierce children of the north. 
To share beneath more genial skies 
Each joy their own rude clime denies. 

Ye who on bright Campania's shore 
Bade your fair villas rise of yore. 
With all their graceful colonnades. 
And crystal baths and myrtle shades. 
Along the blue Hesperian deep. 
Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep; 
Beneath your olive and your vine 
Far other inmates now recline. 
And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed 
With rich libations duly shed, (3) 
O'er guests, unlike your vanish'd friends. 
Its bowery canopy extends : 
For them the southern heaven is glowing, 
The bright Falernian nectar flowing; 
For them the marble halls unfold. 
Where nobler beings dwelt of old. 
Whose children for barbarian lords 
Touch the sweet lyre's resounding chords, 
Or wreaths of Passtan roses twine. 
To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine. 
Yet though luxurious they repose 
Beneath Corinthian porticoes. 
While round them into being start 
The marvels of triumphant art ; 
Oh ! not for them hath Genius given 
To Parian stone the fire of heaven. 
Enshrining in the forms he wrought 
A bright eternity of thought. 
In vain the natives of the skies 
In breathing marble round them rise. 
And sculptured nymphs, of fount or glade, 
People the dark-green laurel shade ; 
Cold is the conqueror's heart and eye 
To visions of divinity; 
And rude his hand which dares deface 
The models of immortal grace. 



Arouse ye from your soft delights ! 
Chieftains! the war-note's call invites; 
And other lands must yet be won. 
And other deeds of havoc done. 
Warriors ! your flowery bondage break, 
Sons of the stormy north, awake ! 
The barks are launching from the steep. 
Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep, (4) 
And Afric's burning winds afar 
Waft the shrill sounds .of Alaric's war. 
Where shall his race of victory close ? 
When shall the ravaged earth repose ? 
But hark ! what wildly mingling cries 
From Scythia's camp tumultuous rise ? 
Why swells dread Alaric's name on air? 
A sterner conqueror hath been there I 
A conqueror — yet his paths are peace. 
He comes to bring the world's release ; 
He of the sword that knows no sheath, 
Th' avenger, the deliver — Death! 

Is then that daring spirit fled ? 
Doth Alaric slumber with the dead ? 
Tamed are the warrior's pride and strength. 
And he and earth are calm at length. 
The land where heaven unclouded shines. 
Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines; 
The land by conquest made his own. 
Can yield him now — a grave alone. 
But his— her lord from Alp to sea — 
No common sepulchre shall be! 
Oh, make his tomb where mortal eye 
Its buried wealth may ne'er descry I 
Where mortal foot may never tread 
Above a victor-monarch's bed. 
Let not his royal dust be hid 
'Neath star-aspiring pyramid ; 
Nor bid the gather'd mound arise, 
To bear his memory to the skies. 
Years roll away — oblivion claims 
Her triumph o'er heroic names ; 
And hands profane disturb the clay 
That once was fired with glory's ray ! 
And Avarice, from their secret gloom. 
Drags e'en the treasures of the tomb. 
But thou, O leader of the free ! 
That general doom awaits not thee ! 
Thou, where no step may e'er intrude, 
Shalt rest in regal solitude. 
Till, bursting on thy sleep profound, 
Th' Awakener's final trumpet sound. 
Turn ye the waters from their course, 
Bid Nature yield to human force, 
And hollow in the torrent's bed 
A chamber for the mighty dead. 
The work is done — the captive's hand 
Hath well obey'd his lord's command. 
Within that royal tomb are cast 
The richest trophies of the past. 
The wealth of many a stately dome, 
The gold and gems of plunder'd Rome ! 
And when the midnight stars are beaming, 
And ocean-waves in stillness gleaming. 
Stern in their grief his warriors bear 
The Chastener of the Nations there ; 
To rest at length from victory's toil, 
Alone, with all an empire's spoil I 

Then the freed current's rushing wave 
Rolls o'er the secret of the grave ; 
Then streams the niartyr'd captives' blood 
To crimson that sepulchral flood. 
Whose conscious tide alone shall keep 
The mystery in its bosom deep. 
Time hath past on since then— and swept 
From earth the urns where heroes slept ; 
Temples of gods, and domes of kings. 
Are mouldering with forgotten things; 
Yet shall not ages e'er molest 
The viewless home of Alaric's rest : 
Still rolls, like them, th' unfailing river, 
The guardian of his dust for ever. 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



73 



NOTES. 

Note 1. 
Spared not the living for the dead. 
After the taking of Athens by Sylla, "though such numbers were 
put to the sword, there were as many who laid violent hands upon 
themselves in grief for their sinking country. What reduced the 
best men among them to this despair of finding any mercy or mode- 
rate terms for Athens, was the well-known cruelly of Sylla ; yet 
partly by the intercession of Midias and Calliphon, and the exiles 
who threw themselves at his feet, partly by the entreaties of the 
senators who attended him in that expedition, and being himself sa- 
tiated with blood besides, he was at last prevailed upon to stop his 
hand, and in compliment to the ancient Athenians, he said, " he for- 
gave the many for the sake of the few, lAe living for the dead.^'— 
Plutarch. 

Note 2. 
That fearful sound, at midnight deep. 
" At the hour of midnight, the Salarian gate was silently opened, 
and the inhabitants were awakened by the tremendous sound of the 
Gothic trumpet. Eleven hundred and sixty-three years after the 
foundation of Rome, the imperial city, which had subdued and civi- 
lized so considerable a portion of mankind, was delivered to the li- 
centious fury of the tribes of Germany and Scythia." — Decline and 
Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. v. p. 3U. 

Note 3. 
With rich libations duly shed. 
The plane-tree was much cultivated among the Romans, on ac- 
count of its extraordinary shade ; and they used to nourish it with 
wine instead of water, believing (as Sir W. Temple observes^ that 
*' This tree loved that liquor as well as those who used to drink un- 
der its shade." — See the notes to MelmotWs Fliny. 

Note 4. 
Soon shall the isle of Ceres weep. 
Sicily was anciently considered as the favoured and peculiar do- 
minion of Ceres. 



WIFE OF ASDRUBAL. 



'This governor, who had braved death when it was at 
a distance, and protested that the sun should never 
see him survive Carthage, this fierce Asdrubal, was 
so mean-spirited, as to come alone, and privately 
throw himself at the conqueror's feet. The general, 
pleased to see his proud rival humbled, granted his 
life and kept him to grace his triumph. The Cartha- 
ginians in the citadel no sooner understood that their 
commander had abandoned the place, than they 
threw open the gates, and put the proconsul in pos- 
session of Byrsa. The Romans had now no enemy 
to contend with but the nine hundred deserters, who, 
being reduced to despair, retired into the temple of 
Esculapius, which was a second citadel within the 
first; there the proconsul attacked them; and these un- 
happy wretches, finding there was no way to escape, 
set fire to the temple. As the flames spread, they re- 
treated from one part to another, till they got to the 
roof of the building ; there Asdrubal's wife ap- 
peared in her best apparel, as if the day of her death 
had been a day of triumph ; and after having uttered 
the most bitter imprecations against her husband, 
whom she saw standing below with Emilianus, 
— " Base coward !" said she, " the mean things thou 
hast done to save thy life shall not avail thee : thou 
shalt die this instant, at least in thy two children." 
Having thus spoken, she drew out a dagger, stabbed 
them both, and while they were yet struggling for 
life, threw them from the top of the temple, and leaped 
down after them into the ^mmea." —Ancient Univer- 
sal History. 



The sun sets brightly— but a ruddier glow 
O'er Afric's heaven the flames of Carthage throw; 
Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire 
In lurid splendour from her domes aspire ; 
Svvay'd by the wind, they wave— while glares the 

sky, 
As when the desert's red Simoom is nigh : 

10 



The sculptured altar, and the pillar'd hall. 
Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall ; 
Par o'er the seas the light of ruin streams. 
Rock, wave, and isle are crimson'd by its beams ; 
While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains. 
Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes ; 
And shouts of triumph, echoing far around. 
Swell from the victor's tents with ivy crown'd.* 
But mark from yon fair temple's loftiest height 
What towering form bursts wildly on the sight, 
All regal in magnificent attire. 
And sternly beauteous in terrific ire? 
She might be deem'd a Pythia in the hour 
Of dread communion and delirious power! 
A being more than earthly, in whose eye 
There dwells a strange and fierce ascendency. 
The flames are gathering round — intensely bright, 
Fall on her features glares their meteor-light. 
But a wild courage sits triuinphant there, 
The stormy grandeur of a proud despair ; 
A daring spirit, in its woes elate. 
Mightier than death, untameable by fate ; 
The dark profusion of her locks unbound, 
Waves like a warrior's floating plumage round ; 
Flush'd is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien. 
She seems the avenging goddess of the scene. 

Are those her infants, that with suppliant cry. 
Cling round her, shrinking as the flame draws nigh, 
Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest, 
And fain would rush for shelter to her breast? 
Is that a mother's glance, where stern disdain, 
And passion awfully vindictive, reign ? 

Fi.Y'd is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands. 
Ignobly safe, amidst the conquering bands ; 
On him who left her to that burning tomb. 
Alone to share her children's martyrdom ; 
Who, when his country perish'd, fled the strife. 
And knelt to win the worthless boon of life. 
" Live, traitor, live !" she cries, " since dear to 

thee, 
E'en in thy fetters, can existence be ! 
Scorn'd and dishonour'd live ! — with blasted name. 
The Roman's triumph not to grace, but shame. 
O slave in spirit! bitter be thy chain. 
With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain ! 
Still may the manes of thy children rise 
To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes ; 
Still may their voices on the haunted air 
In fearful whispers tell thee to despair. 
Till vain remorse thy wither'd heart consume. 
Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb! 
E'en now my sons shall die — and thou, their sire. 
In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire. 
Think'st thou I love them not? — 'T was thine to 

fly- 
'Tis mine with these to suffer and to die. 
Behold their faj;e! the arms that cannot save 
Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave." 

Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams. 
Swift from her children's hearts the life-blood 

streams; 
With frantic laugh she clasps them to her breast. 
Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest ; 
Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high. 
Then deep 'midst rolling flames is lost to mortal 
eye. 



f^eUotrorus in the EcmpU. 



From Maccabees, book 2. chapter iii. 21. "Then it 
would have pitied a man to see the falling-down of 
the multitude of all sorts, and the fear of the high- 
priest, being in such an agony. — ^22. They then called 
upon the Almighty Lord to keep the things committed 
of trust safe and sure, for those that had committed 
them. — 23. Nevertheless, Ileliodorus executed that 



p It was a Roman custom to adorn the tents of victors with ivy. 



74 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



which was decreed. — 24. Now as he was there pre- 
sent himself with his guard about the treasury, the 
Lord of Spirits, and tlie Prince of all Power, caused a 
great apparition, so that all that presumed to come 
in with him were astonished at the power of God, 
and fainted, and were sore afraid. — 25. For there 
appeared unto them a horse with a terrible rider 
upon )iim, and adorned with a very fair covering, and 
he ran fiercely, and smote at Heliodorus with his fore- 
feet, and it seemed that he that sat upon the horse had 
a complete harness of gold.— 26. Moreover, two other 
young men appeared before him, notable in strength, 
excellent in beauty, and comely in apparel, who stood 
by him on either side, and scourged him conlinually, 
and gave him many sore stripes. — 27. And Heliodo- 
lus fell suddenly to the ground, and was compassed 
with great darkness ; but they that were with him 
took him up and put him into a litter. — 28. Thus him 
that lately came with great train, and with all his 
guard into the said treasury, they carried out, being 
unable to help himself with his weapons, and mani- 
festly they acknowledged the power of God. — 29. 
For he by the hand of God was cast down, and lay 
speechless, without all hope of Ufe." 



HELIODORUS IN THE TEMPLE. 



A SOUND of woe in Salem! mournful cries 
Rose from her dwellings— youthful cheeks were 
pale. 

Tears flowing fast from dim and aged eyes, 
And voices mingling in tumultuous wail ; 

Hands raised to heaven in agony of prayer, 

And powerless wrath, and terror, and despair. 

Thy daughters, Judah ! weeping, laid aside 
The regal splendour of their fair array, 

With the rude sackcloth girt their beauty's pride, 
And throng'd the streets in hurrying, wild dis- 
may ; 

While knelt thy priests before his awful shrine, 

Who made, of old, renown and empire thine. 

But on the spoiler moves— the temple's gate, 
The bright, the beautiful, his guards unfold, 

And all the scene reveals its solemn state. 
Its courts and pillars, rich with sculptured gold; 

And man, with eye unhallow'd, views th' abode, 

The sever'd spot, the dwelling place of God. 

Where art thou, Mighty Presence ! that of yore 
Wert wont between the cherubim to rest, 

Veil'd in a cloud of glory, shadowing o'er 
Thy sanctuary the chosen and the blest 7 

Thou! that didst make fair Sion's ark thy throne, 

And call the oracle's recess thine own ! 

Angel of God ! that through th' Assyrian host. 
Clothed with the darkness of the midnight hour, 

To tame the proud, to hush th' invader's boast, 
Didst pass triumphant in avenging power, 

Till burst the day-spring on the silent scene. 

And death alone reveal'd where thou hadst been. 

Wilt thou not wake, O Chastener ! in thy might, 
To guard thine ancient and majestic hill, 

Where oft from heaven the full Shechinah's light 
Hath stream'd, the house of holiness to till ? 

Oh! yet once more defend thy loved domain, 

Eternal one ! Deliverer ! rise again ! 

Fearless of thee, the plunderer, undismay'd. 
Hastes on, the sacred chambers to explore 

Where the bright treasures of the fane are laid, 
The orphan's portion, and the widow's store ; 

What recks his heart though age unsuccour'd die, 

And want consume the cheek of infancy? 

Away, intruders !— hark ! a mighty sound ! 

Behold a burst of light !— away, away ! 
A fearful glory tills the temple round, 

A vision bright in terrible array ! 



And lo ! a steed of no terrestrial frame, 

His path a whirlwind, and his breath a flame ! 

His neck is clothed with thunder*— and his mane 
Seems waving fire — the kindling of his eye 

Is as a meteor — ardent with disdain 
His glance — his gesture, fierce in majesty ! 

Instinct with light he seems, and form'd to bear 

Some dread archangel through the fields of air. 

But who is he, in panoply of gold, 

Throned on that burning charger? — bright iiis 
form. 
Yet in its brightness awful to behold, 

And girt with all the terrors of the storm ! 
Lightning is on his helmet's crest — and fear 
Shrinks from the splendour of his brow severe. 

And by his side two radiant warriors stand 
All arm'd and kingly in commanding grace — 

Oh! more than kingly, godlike! sternly grand 
Their port indignant, and each dazzling face 

Beams with the beauty to immortals given. 

Magnificent in all the wrath of heaven. 

Then sinks each gazer's heart— each knee is bow'd 
In treiflbling awe— but, as to fields of fight. 

Til' unearthly war-steed, rushing through the 
crowd. 
Bursts on their leader with terrific might ; 

And the stern angels of that dread abode 

Pursue its plunderer with the scourge of God. 

Darkness — thick darkness ! low on earth he lies, 
Rash Heliodorus — motionless and pale — 

Bloodless his cheek, and o'er his shrouded eyes 
Mists, as of death, suspend their shadowy veil ; 

And thus th' oppressor, by Ills fear-struck train, 

Is borne from that inviolable fane. 

The light returns — the warriors of the sky 
Have pass'd, with all their dreadful pomp, away ; 

Then wakes the timbrel, swells the song on liigh 
Triumphant, as in Judah's elder day ; 

Rejoice, O city of the sacred hill ! 

Salem, exult ! thy God is with thee still. 



NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA. 



[From Sismondrs "Repuhligues Jtalicnnes."] 
" En meme temps que les Genois poursuivoient avec ar- 
deur la guerre contre Pise ils etoient dechires eux- 
memes par une discorde civile. Les iConsuls de I'an- 
nee 1169, pour etablir la paix dans leur patrie au 
milieu des factions sourdes a leur voix et plus puis- 
santes qu' eux, furent obliges d'ourdir en quelque 
sorte une conspiration. lis commencerent pars'assu- 
rersecretement des dispositions pacifiques de plusieurs 
des citoyens, qui cependant etoient entraines dans les 
emeutes par leur parente avec les chefs de faction ; 
puis, se concertant avecle venerable vieillard, Hagues, 
leur archeveque, ils firent, long-temps avant le lever du 
soliol, appeler au son des cloches les citoyens au parle- 
ment ; ils se flattoient que la surprise et I'alarme de 
cette convocation inattendue, au milieu de I'obecu- 
rito de la nuit rendroit I'assemblee et plus complete et 
plus docile. Les citoyens, en accourant au parlement 
general, virent, au milieu de la place publique, le vieil 
archeveque, entoure de son clerge en habit de ceremo- 
nies, et portant des torches allumees, tandis que les re- 
liquesde Saint Jean Baptiste, le protecteurde Genes, 
etoient exposees devant lui, et que les citoyens les 
plus respectables portoienl a leurs mains des croix sup- 
pliantes. Des que I'assemblee fut formee, le vieillard se 
leva, et de sa voix cassee il conjura les chefs de parti, 
au nom du Dieu de paix au nom du salut de leurs 
ames, au nom de leur patrie et de la liberte, dont leurs 
discordes entraineroient la ruine, de jurer sur I'evan- 
gile I'oubli de leurs querellcs, et la paix a venir. 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



75 



" Les herauts, des qu'il eut fini de parler, s'avanceren 
aussitot vers Roland Avogado, le chef de I'une des 
factions, qui etoit present a I'assemblce, et, secondes 
par les acclamations de tout le peuple, et par les pri- 
eres de ses parens eux-memes, ils le sommerent do se 
conformer au vceu des consuls et de la nation. 

" Roland, a leur approche, dechira ses habits, et, s'asse- 
yant par terre en versant des larmes, il appela a haute 
voLx les morts qu'il avoit Jure de venger, et qui ne lui 
permettoient pas de pardonnor leurs vieilles off'enscs. 
Comme on ne pouvoit le determiner a s'avancer, les 
consuls eux-memes, I'archeveque et le clerge s'ap- 
procherent de lui, et, renouvelant leurs prieres, ils 
I'entrainerent enfin, et lui firent jurer sur I'^vangile 
I'oubli de ses inimities passees. 

" Les chefs du parti contraire, Foulques de Castro, et 
Ingo de Volta, n'etoient pas presens a I'assemblee, 
mais le peuple et le clerge se porterent en foule a 
leurs maisons ; ils les trouverent deja ebranles par ce 
qu'ils venoient d'apprendre, et, profitant de leur emo- 
tion, ils leur firent jurer une reconciliation sincere, et 
donner le baiser de paix aux chefs de la faction oppo- 
see. Alors les cloches de la ville sonnerent en te- 
moignage d'allegresse, et I'archeveque de retour sur 
la place publique entonna un Te Deuvi avec toute le 
peuple, en honneur du Dieu de paLx qui avoit sauve 
leur patrie." — Histoire des RepuJiliqucs Italiennes 
vol. ii. p. 149—150. 



NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA. 



In Genoa, when the sunset gave 
Its last warm purple to the wave, 
No sound of war, no voice of fear, 
Was heard, announcing danger near : 
Though deadliest foes were tliere, whose hate 
But slumber'd till its hour of fate, 
Yet calmly, at the twilight's close, 
Sunk the wide city to repose. 

But when deep midnight reign'd around. 
All sudden woke the alarm-bell's sound. 
Full swelling, while the hollow breeze 
Bore its dread summons o'er the seas. 
Then, Genoa, from their slumber started 
Thy sons, the free, the fearless-hearted; 
Then mingled with th' awakening peal 
Voices, and steps, and clash of steel. 
" Arm, warriors, arm ! for danger calls: 
Arise to guard your native walls!" 
With breathless haste the gathering throng 
Huri'y the echoing streets along ; 
Through darkness rushing to the scene 
Where their bold councils still convene. 
— But there a blaze of torches bright 
Pours its red radiance on the night, 
O'er fane, and dome, and column playing, 
With every fitful night-wind swaying, 
Now floating o'er each tall arcade. 
Around the pillar'd scene display'd, 
In light reveal'd by depth of shade ; 
And now, with ruddy meteor-glare. 
Full streaming on the silvery hair 
And the bright cross of him who stands. 
Rearing that sign with suppliant hands, 
Girt with his consecrated train. 
The hallow'd servants of the fane. 
Of life's past woes the fading trace 
Hath given that aged patriarch's face 
Expression holy, deep, resign'd. 
Tile calm sublimity of mind. 
Years o'er his snowy head had pass'd, 
And left him of his race the last; 
Alone on earth — yet still his mien 
Is bright with majesty serene ; 
And those high hopes, whose guiding-star 
Shines from th' eternal worlds afar, 
Have with that light illumed his eye, 
Whose fount is immortality. 
And o'er his features pour'd a ray 
Of glory, not to pass away. 



He seems a being who hath known 

Communion with his God alone. 

On earth by naught but pity's tie 

Detain'd a moment from on high ! 

One to sublimer worlds allied. 

One, from all passion purified. 

E'en now half mingled with the sky. 

And all prepared— oh ! not to die — 

But like the prophet, to aspire, 

In heaven's triumphal car of fire. 

He speaks— and from the thrcjngs around 

Is heard not e'en a whisper'd sound ; 

Awe-struck each heart, and fix'd each glance, 

They stand as in a spell-bound trance; 

He speaks — oh! who can hear nor owij 

The might of each prevailing tone ? 

" Chieftains and warriors ! ye, so long 
Aroused to strife by mutual wrong, 
Whose fierce and far-transmitted hate 
Hath made your country desolate ; 
Now by the love ye bear her name, 
By that pure spark of holy flame 
On freedom's altar brightly burning. 
But, once extinguish'd — ne'er returning; 
By all your hopes of bliss to come 
When burst the bondage of the tomb ; 
By Him, the God who bade us live 
To aid each other and forgive ; 
I call upon ye to resign 
Your discords at your country's shrine. 
Each ancient feud in peace atone. 
Wield your keen swords for her alone. 
And swear upon the cross to cast 
Oblivion's mantle o'er the past." 

No voice replies — the holy bands 
Advance to where yon chieftain stands, 
With folded arms and brow of gloom 
O'ershadow'd by his floatitig plume. 
To him they lift the cross — in vain. 
He turns— oh ! say not with disdain, 
But with a mien of haughty grief. 
That seeks not e'en from heaven relief: 
He rends his robes — he sternly speaks — 
Yet tears are on the warrior's cheeks. 

" Father ! not thus the wounds may close 
Inflicted by eternal foes. 
Deem'st thou thy mandate can efliace 
The dread volcano's burning trace ? 
Or bid the earthquake's ravaged scene 
Be smiling, as it once hath been^ 
No! — for the deeds the sword hath done 
Forgiveness is not lightly won ; 
The words, by hatred spoke, may not 
Be, as a summer breeze, forgot ! 
'Tis vain — we deem the war-feud's rage 
A portion of our heritage. 
Leaders, now slumbering with their fame, 
Bequeath'd us that undying flame ; 
Hearts that have long been still and cold 
Yet rule us from their silent mould. 
And voices, heard on earth no more, 
Speak to our spirits as of yore. 
Talk not of mercy — blood alone 
The stain of bloodshed may atone; 
Naught else can pay that mighty debt 
The dead forbid us to forget." 

He pauses — from the patriarch's brow 
There beams more lofty grandeur now ; 
His reverend form, his aged hand, 
Assume a gesture of command. 
His voice is awful, and his eye 
Fill'd with prophetic majesty. 

" The dead!— and deem'st thou tlinj retain 
Aught of terrestrial passion's stain ! 
Of guilt incurr'd in daj's gone by, 
Aught but the fearful penalty ? 
And say'st thou, mortal ! blood alone 
For deeds of slaughter may atone ? 
There hath been blood — by HIM 't was shed 
To expiate every crime who bled ; 



76 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



Th' absolving God who died to save, 

And rose in victory from the grave ! 

And by that stainless offering given 

Alilte from all on earth to lieaven ; 

By that inevitable hour 

When death shall vanquish pride and power. 

And each departing passion's force 

Concentrate all in late remorse ; 

And by the day when doom shall be 

Pass'd on earth's millions, and on thee, 

The doom that shall not be repeal'd, 

Once utter'd and for ever seal'd; 

I summon thee, O child of clay! 

To cast thy darker thoughts away. 

And meet thy foes in peace and love. 

As tliou wouldsl join the blest above." 

Still as he speaks unwonted feeling 
Is o'er the chieftain's bosom stealing ; 
Oh I not in vain the pleading cries 
Of anxious thousands round him rise. 
He yields — devotion's mingled sense 
Of faith, and fear, and penitence. 
Pervading all his soul, he bows 
To offer on the cross his vows. 
And that best incense to the skies, 
Each evil passion's sacritice. 

Then tears from warriors' eyes were flowing. 
High hearts with soft emotions glowing. 
Stern foes as long-loved brothers greeting. 
And ardent throngs in transport meeting. 
And eager footsteps forward pressing, 
And accents loud in joyous blessing ; 
And when their first wild tumults cease, 
A thousand voices echo " Peace 1" 

Twilight's dim mist hath roll'd away. 
And the rich Orient burns with day; 
Then as to greet the sunbeam's birth. 
Rises the choral hymn of earth ; 
Th' exulting strain through Genoa swelling. 
Of peace and holy rapture telling. 
Par float the sounds o'er vale and steep, 
The sunbeam hears them on the deep. 
So mellow'd by the gale they seem 
As the wild music of a dream ; 
But not on mortal ear alone 
Peals the triumphant anthem's tone. 
For beings of a purer sphere 
Bend with celestial joy to hear. 



THE TROUBADOUR 

AND 

RICHARD CCEUR DE LION. 



to his unspeakable joy, on making a pause, he heard 
it re-echoed, and continued by the royal captive." — 
(.Hist. Troubadours.) To this discovery the EngUsh 
monarch is said to have eventually owed his re- 
lease.' ' — See Russell' s Modern Europe, vol. i. p. 369. 



' Not only the place of Richard's confinement" (when 
thrown into prison by the Duke of Austria,) if we be- 
heve the literary history of the times, but even the 
circumstance of his captivity, was carefully concealed 
by his vindictive enemies : and both might have re- 
mained unknown but for the grateful attachment of 
a Provencal bard, or minstrel, named Blondel, who 
had shared that prince's friendship and tasted his 
bounty. Having travelled over all the European con- 
tinent to learn the destiny of his beloved patron, 
Blondel accidentally got intelligence of a certain cas- 
tle in Germany, where a prisoner of distinction was 
confined and guarded with great vigilance. Per- 
suaded by a secret impulse that this prisoner was the 
King of England, the minstrel repaired to the place ; 
but the gates of the castle were shut against him, 
and he could obtain no information relative to the 
name or quality of the unhappy person it secured. 
In this extremity, he bethought himself of an expedient 
for making the desired discovery. He chanted with a 
loud voice, some verses of a song which had been 
composed partly by himself, partly by Richard : and. 



The Troubadour o'er many a plain 
Hath roam'd unwearied, but in vain. 
O'er many a rugged mountain-scene. 
And forest wild, his track hath been ; 
Beneath Calabria's glowing sky 
He hath sung the song of chivalry. 
His voice hath swell'd on the Alpine breeze, 
And rung through the snowy Pyrenees ; 
From Ebro's banks to Danube's wave. 
He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave. 
And yet, if still on earth thou art, 
O monarch of the lion-heart! 
The faithful spirit, which distress 
But heightens to devotedness. 
By toil and trial vanquish'd not. 
Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot. 

He hath reach'd a mountain hung with vine. 
And woods that wave o'er the lovely Rhine; 
The feudal towers that crest its height 
Frown in unconquerable might ; 
Dark is their aspect of sullen state. 
No helmet hangs o'er the massy gate (1) 
To bid the wearied pilgrim rest. 
At the chieftain's board a welcome guest; 
Vainly rich evening's parting smile 
Would chase the glootn of the haughty pile, 
That 'midst bright sunshine lowers on high, 
Like a thunder-cloud in a summer-sky. 

Not these the halls where a child of song 
Awhile may speed the hours along; 
Their echoes should repeat alone 
The tyrant's mandate, the prisoner's moan, 
Or the wild huntsman's bugle-blast. 
When his phantom-train are hurrying past. (2) 
The weary minstrel paused — his eye 
Roved o'er the scene despondingly : 
Within the lengthening shadow cast 
By the fortress-towers and ramparts vast. 
Lingering he gazed — the rocks around 
Sublime in savage grandeur frown'd ; 
Proud guardians of the regal flood. 
In giant strength the mountains stood ; 
By torrents cleft, by tempests riven. 
Yet mingling with the calm blue heaven. 
Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow. 
But the Rhine all shadowy roll'd below ; 
In purple tints the vineyards smiled. 
But the woods beyond waved dark and wild ; 
Nor pastoral pipe, nor convent's bell. 
Was heard on the sighing breeze to swell, 
But all was lonely, silent, rude, 
A stern, yet glorious solitude. 

But hark! that solemn stillness breaking, 
The Troubadour's wild song is waking 
Pull oft that song, in days gone by. 
Hath cheer'd the sons of chivalry ; 
It hath swell'd o'er Judah's mountains lone, 
Hermon ! thy echoes have learn'd its tone ; 
On the Great Plain (3) its notes have rung, 
The leagued Crusaders' tents among ; 
'T was loved by the Lion-heart, who won 
The palm in the field of Ascalon ; 
And now afar o'er the rocks of Rhine 
Peals the bold strain of Palestine. 

THE troubadour's SONG. 

" Thine hour is come, and the stake is set," 
The soldan cried to the captive knight, 

" And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are met 
To gaze on the fearful sight. 

"But be our faith by thy lips profess'd. 

The faith of Mecca's shrine. 
Cast down the red-cross that marks thy vest, 

And life shall yet be thine." 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



77 



" I have seen the flow of my bosom's blood, 

And gazed with undaunted eye ; 
I have borne the bright cross through fire and flood,. 

And think'st thou I fear to die ? 

" I have stood where thousands by Salem's towers. 

Have fallen for the name divine ; 
And the faith that cheer'd their closing hours 

Shall be the light of mine." 

" Thus wilt thou die in the pride of health, 
And the glow of youth's fresh bloom ? 

Thou art ofler'd life, and pomp, and wealth, 
Or torture and the tomb." 

" Ihavebeen where thecrown of thorns was twined 

For a dying Saviour's brow ; 
He spurn'd the treasures that lure mankind, 

And I reject them now ! 

" Art thou the son of a noble line 

In a land that is fair and blest ? 
And doth not thy spirit, proud captive ! pine, 

Again on its shores to rest ? 

"Thine own is the choice to hail once more 

The soil of thy fathers' birth. 
Or to sleep when thy lingering pangs are o'er 

Forgotten in foreign earth." 

" Oh ! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise 

In the country of my love ; 
But yet, though cloudless my native skies, 

There's a brighter clime above !" 

The bard hath paused — for another tone 
Blends with the music of his own ; 
And his heart. beats high with hope again, 
As a well-known voice prolongs the strain. 

"Are there none within thy father's hall, 

Far o'er the wide blue main, 
Young Christian 1 left to deplore thy fall, 

With sorrow deep and vain?" 

" There are hearts that still, through all the past, 

Unchanging have loved me well ; 
There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast 

When I bade my home farewell. 

" Better they wept o'er the warrior's bier 

Than th' apostate's living stain; 
There's a land where those who loved, when here, 

Shall meet to love again." 

'Tis he! thy prince — long sought, long lost. 
The leader of the red-cross host ! 
'Tis he ! — to none thy joy betray. 
Young Troubadour! away, away! 
Away to the island of the brave, 
The gem on the bosom of the wave, (4) 
Arouse the sons of the noble soil, 
To win their lion from the toil ; 
And free the wassail-cup shall flow. 
Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow ; 
The festal board shall be richly crown'd. 
While knights and chieftains revel round, 
And a thousand harps with joy shall ring, 
V\^hen merry England hails her king. 



NOTES. 



Note 1. 
No hdrmt hangs o^cr the massy gate. 
It was a custom in feudal times to hang out a helmet on a castle, 
as a tolcen that strangers were invited to enter, and partalje of hospi- 
tality. So in the romance of ' Perceforest,' " lis fasoient mettre au 
plus hault de leur hostel un heaubne, en signe que tous les gentils 
hommes et gentilles femmes entrassent hardiment en leur hostel 
comme en leur propre." 

Note 2. 

Or the wild hxmtsmarVs buglc-hlak, 
When his fluxnlorji-train are hurrying ■past. ' 
Popular tradition has made several mouutains in Germany the 
haunt of the wild Jager^ or supernatural huntsman — the superstitious 



tales relating to the Unterburg are recorded in Eustace's Classical 
Tour ; and it is still believed in the romantic district of the Oden- 
wald, that the knight of Rodenstein, issuing from his ruined castle, 
announces the approach of war by traversing the air with a noisy 
armament to the opposite caslle of Schnellerts.— See the Manuel 
pour les Foyogeurs s-ur le Jihin, and Autumn on the mine. 

Note 3. 
On the Great Plain its notes have rung. 
The plain of Esdraelon, called by way of eminence the "Great 
Plain ;" in Scripture, and elsewhere, the •' Field of Megiddo," the 
" Galilean Plain." This plain, the most fertile of all the land of Ca- 
naan, has been the scene of many a memorable contest in the first 
ages of Jewish history, as well as during the Roman empire, the 
Crusades, and even in later times. It has been a chosen place for 
encampment in every contest carried on in this country, from the 
days of Nabuchodonosor, king of the Assyrians, until the disastrous 
march of Bonaparte from Egypt into Syria. Warriors out of •' every 
nation which is under heaven" have pitched their tents upon the Plain 
of Esdraelon, and have beheld the various banners of their nations 
wet With the dews of Hermon and Thabor.— Z)r. Clarke's Travels. 

Note 4. 
The gem on the bosom of the wave. 
" This precious stone set in the silver sea." 

Shakespeare's Richard II. 



leatli Qi itiinvatiin. 



[FromSismondi's " Repuhliques Italiennes."] 

"La defaite de Conradin ne devoit mettre une terme 
ni a sea malheurs, ni aux vengeances du roi (Charles 
d'Anjou). L'amour du peuple pour I'heritier legitime 
dutrone, avoit eclated' une maniere effrayante; ilpou- 
voit causer de nouvelles revolutions, si Conradin de- 
meuroit en vie ; et Charles, revetant sa defiance et sa 
cruaute des formes de la justice, resolut de faire perir 
sur I'echafaud le dernier rejeton de la Maison do 
Souabe, I'unique esperance de son parti. Un seul juge 
Provencal et sujet de Charles, dont les historiens n'ont 
pas voulu conserver le nom, osa voter pour la mort, 
d'autres se renfermerent dans un timide et coupable 
silence; et Charles, sur I'autorite de ce seul juge, fit 
pronouncer, par Robert de Bari, protonotaire du roy- 
aume, la sentence de mort contre Conradin et tous ses 
compagnons. Cette sentence fut communiciuee a Con- 
radin, comme iljouoit aux echecs ; on lui laissa peu 
de temps pour se preparer a son execution, et le 26 
d'Octobre il fut conduit, avec tous ses amis, sur la 
Place du Marche de Naples, le long du rivage de la 
mer. Charles etoit present, avec tout sa cour, et une 
foule immense entouroit le roi vainqueuret le roi con- 
damne. Conradin etoit entre les mains des bourreaux; il 
detacha lui meme son manteau, et s'etant mis a genoux 
pour prier, il sereleva en s'ecriant : ' Oh, ma mere, 
quelle profonde douleur te causera la nouvelle qu'on 
va te porter de moi !' Puis il tourna les yeux sur la 
foule qui I'entouroit; il vit les larmes, it entendit les 
sanglots de son peuple ; alors, detachant son gant, il 
jeta au milieu de ses sujcts ce gage d'un combat de 
vengeance, et renditsa tete au bourreau. Apres lui, 
sur le meme echafaud, Charles fit trancher la tete au 
Due d'Autriche, aux Comtes Gualferano et Barto- 
lommeo Lancia, et aux Comtes Gerard de Galvano 
Donoratico de Pise. Par une rafinement de cruaute. 
Charles votilut que le premier, fils du second, precedat 
son pere, mourut entre ses bras. Les cadavres, d'apres 
ses ordres, furent exclus d'une terre sainte, et inhumes 
sans pompe sur le rivage de la mer. Charles II. ce- 
pendant fit dans la suite batir, sur le meme lieu, une 
eglisede CarmeUtes, comme pour appaiser ces ombres 
irritees." 



No cloud to dim the splendour of the day 
Which breaks o'er Naples and her lovely bay. 
And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore 
With every tint that charm'd the great of yore ; 
Th' imperial ones of earth — who proudly bade 
Their marble domes e'en ocean's realm invade. 



78 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



That race is gone— but glorious nature here 
Maintains unchanged her own sublime career, 
And bids these regions of the sun display 
Bright hues, surviving empires past away. 

The beam of Iieaven expands — its kindling 
smile 
Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle, 
Whose image floats in softer colouring drest 
With all its rocks and vines on ocean's breast. 
Misenum's cape hath caught the vivid ray. 
On Roman streamers there no more to play ; 
Still as of old, unalterably bright. 
Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo's height, 
With all Italia's sunshine to illume 
The ilex canopy of Virgil's tomb. 
Campania's plains rejoice in light, and spread 
Their gay lu.xuriance o'er the mighty dead ; 
Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies, 
Thy palaces, exulting Naples ! rise ; 
While far on high, Vesuvius rears his peak, 
Purrow'd and dark with many a lava streak. 

O ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse ! 
Rich with all Nature's and all fiction's hues ; 
Who shall explore your regions, and declare 
The poet err'd to paint Elysium there ? 
Call up his spirit, wanderer ! bid him guide 
Thy steps, those siren-haunted seas beside. 
And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear. 
And spells more potent shall pervade the air. 
What though his dust be scatter'd, and his urn 
Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn,(l) 
Still dwell the beings of his verse around, 
Hovering in beauty o'er the enchanted ground ; 
His lays are murmur'd in each breeze that roves 
Soft o'er the sunny waves and orange-groves. 
His memory's charm is spread o'er shore and sea. 
The soul, the genius of Parthenope ; 
Shedding o'er myrtle-shade and vine-clad hill 
The purple radiance of Elysium still. 

Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky 
Have witness'd many a dark reality. 
Oft o'er those bright blue seas the gale hath borne 
The sighs of exiles never to return. (2) 
There with the whisper of Campania's gale 
Hath mingled oft aftection's funeral wail. 
Mourning for buried heroes — while to her 
That glowing land was but their sepulchre. (3) 
And there, of old, the dread, mysterious moan 
Swell'd from strange voices of no mortal tone ; 
And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note 
Was heard, at midnight, o'er the hills to float 
Around the spot where Agrippina died, 
Denouncing vengeance on the matricide. (4) 

Past are those ages— yet another crime. 
Another woe must stain the Elysian clime. 
There stands a scaftbld on the sunny shore- 
It must be crimson'd ere the day is o'er ! 
There is a throne in regal pomp array'd,— 
A scene of death from thence must be survey'd. 
Mark'd ye the rushing throngs?— each mien is pale, 
Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale ; 
But the deep workings of th' indignant breast. 
Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppress'd ; 
The burning tear awhile must check its course, 
Th' avenging thought concentrate all its force, 
For tyranny is near, and will not brook 
Aught but submission in each guarded look. 

Girt with his fierce Provencals, and with mien 
Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene, (5) 
And in his eye a keen suspicious glance 
Of jealous pride and restless vigilance. 
Behold the conqueror !— vainly in his face. 
Of gentler feeling hope would seek a trace ; 
Cold, proud, severe, the spirit which hath lent 
Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament ; 
And pleading mercy in the sternness there, 
May read at once her sentence— to despair ! 

But thou, fair boy! the beautiful, the brave. 
Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave. 
While all is yet around thee which can give 
A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live ; 



Thou, on whose form hath dwelt a mother's eye, 
Till the deep love that not with thee shall die 
Hath grown too full for utterance— can it be ? 
And is this pomp of death prepared for thee? 
Young, royal Conradin ! who should'st have known 
Of life as yet the sunny smile alone ! 
Oh I who can view thee, in the pride and bloom 
Of youth, array'd thus richly for the tomb. 
Nor feel, deep-swelling in his inmost soul, 
Emotions tyranny may ne'er control ? 
Bright victim ! to ambition's altar led, 
Crown'd with all flowers that heaven on earth can 

shed. 
Who, from th' oppressor towering in his pride. 
May hope for mercy— if to thee denied ? 
There is dead silence on the breathless throng, — 
Dead silence ail the peopled shore along, 
As on the captive moves — the only sound 
To break that calm so fearfully profound. 
The low sweet murmur of the rippling wave, 
Soft as it glides the smiling shore to lave ; 
While on that shore, his own fair heritage, 
The youthful martyr to a tyrant's rage 
Is passing to his fate— the eyes are dim 
Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, on 

him : 
He mounts the scaffold — doth his footstep fail ? 
Doth his lip quiver ? doth his cheek turn pale ? 
Oh ! it may be forgiven him, if a thought 
Cling to that world, for him with beauty fraught, 
To all the hopes that promised Glory's meed. 
And all th' affections that with him shall bleed ! 
If in his life's young day-spring, while the rose 
Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows. 
One human fear convulse his parting breath. 
And shrink from all the bitterness of death 1 

But no !— the spirit of his royal race 
Sits brightly on his brow — that youthful face 
Beams with heroic beauty — and his eye 
Is eloquent with injured majesty. 
He kneels — but not to man — his heart shall own 
Such deep submission to his God alone ! 
And who can tell with what sustaining power 
That God may visit him in fate's dread hour ? 
How the still voice, which answers every moan, 
May speak of hope, — when hope on earth is gone ? 

That solemn pause is o'er— the youth hath given 
One glance of parting love to earth and heaven ; 
The sun rejoices in th' unclouded sky. 
Life all around him glows— and he must die ! 
Yet 'midst his people, undismay'd, he throws 
The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes ; 
Vengeance, that like their own volcano's fire, 
May sleep suppress'd awhile— but not e,xpire. 
One softer image rises o'er his breast, 
One fond regret, and all shall be at rest ! 
"Alas, for thee, my mother ! who shall bear 
To thy sad heart the tidings of despair. 
When thy lost child is gone ?" — that thought can 

thrill 
His soul with pangs one moment more shall still. 

The lifted axe is glittering in the sun — 
It falls — the race of Conradin is run ! 
Yet from the blood which flows that shore to stain, 
A voice shall cry to heaven — and not in vain ! 
Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne. 
In proud supremacy of guilt alone, 
Charles of Anjou!— but that dread voice shall be 
A fearful summoner e'en yet to thee ! 

The scene of death is closed — the throngs depart, 
A deep stern lesson graved on every heart. 
No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes, 
High-minded boy ! may grace thine obsequies. 
O vainly royal and beloved ! thy grave, 
Unsanctified, is bathed by ocean's wave, 
Mark'd by no stone, a rude, neglected spot 
Unhonour'd, unadorn'd — but nvforgot: 
For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live. 
Now mutely suffering- never to forgive ! 

The sunset fades from purple heavens away, — 
A bark hath anchor'd in th' unruffled bay ; 
Thence on the beach descends a female form, (6) 
Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm ; 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



79 



But life hath left sad traces on her cheek, 
And her soft eyes a chasteii'd heart bespeak 
Inured to woes— yet what were all the past ! 
She sunk not feebly 'neath affliction's blast, 
While one bright hope remain'd — who now shall 

tell 
Th' uncrown 'd, the widow'd, how her loved one 

fell? 
To clasp her child, to ransom and to save, 
The mother came — and she hath found his grave ! 
And by that grave, transfix'd in speechless grief. 
Whose death-like trance denies a tear's relief, 
Awhile she kneels — till roused at length to know, 
To feel the might, the fullness of her woe. 
On the still air a voice of anguish wild, 
Amother's cry is heard — "My Conradin ! my child !" 



NOTES. 

Note 1. 
Long from its sancluai-y of slumber toi-n. 
The urn, supposed to contain the ashes of Virgil, has long since 
been lost. 

Note 2. 

The sighs of exiles n&ver to return. 
Many Romans of exalted rank were formerly banished to some 
of the small islands ia the Mediterranean, on the coast of Italy. 
Julia, the daughter of Augustus, was confined many years in the 
isle of Pandataria, and her daughter, Agrippiua, the widow of Ger- 
manicus, afterwards died in exile on the same desolate spot. 

Note 3. 
That glowing land was but their sepulchre. 
" Quelques souvenirs du cceur, quelques noms de femmes, re- 
clament aussi vos pleurs. C'est a Mlsene, dans le lieu meme ou 
nous sommes, que la veuve de Pompee, Cornelie, conserva jusqu'a 
la mort son noble deuil ; Agrippine pleura long-temps Germanicus 
Bur ces bords. Un jour, le meme assassin qui lui ravit son epoux la 
trouva digne de le suivre. L'ile de Nisida fut temoin des adieux de 
Brutus et de Porcie." — Madame de Stael — Corinne. 

Note 4. 
Denouncing vengeance on the matricide. 
The sight of that coast, and those shores where the crime had 
been perpetrated, filled Nero with continual horrors j besides, there 
were some who imagined they heard horrid shrieks and cries from 
Agrippina's tomb, and a mournful sound of trumpets from the 
neighbouring cliJfs and hills. Nero, therefore, flying from such tra- 
gical scenes, withdrew to Naples.— ^See Aitcient Universal History. 

Note 5. 
Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene. 
*' Ce Charles," dit Giovanni Villani, "fut 6age et prudent dans les 
conseils, pretix dans les armes, apre et fort redoute de tons les rois 
du monde, magnanime et de hautes pensees qui I'egaloient aux plus 
grandes entreprises ; inebranlable dans I'adversite, ferme et fidele 
dans toutes ses promesses, parlant peu et agissant beaucoup, ne riant 
presque jamais, decent comme uu religieux, zele catholique, apre a 
rendre justice, feroce dans ses regards. Sa taille etoit grande et ner- 
veuse, sa couleur olivatre, son nez fort grand. II paroissoJt plus fait 
qu'aucun autre chevalier pour la majeste royale. 11 ne dormoit 
presque point. Jamais il ne prit de plaisir aux mimes, aux trouba- 
dours, et aux gens de cour." — Sismondi. Republiques Italiennes 
vol. iii. 

Note 6. 
Thence on the beach descends a female form.. 
"The Carmine (at Naples) calls to mind the bloody catastrophe 
of those royal youths, Conradin and Frederick of Austria, butchered 
before its door. Whenever I traversed that square, my heart yearned 
at the idea of their premature fate, and at the deep distress of Con- 
radin'e mother, who, landing on the beach with her son's ransom, 
found only a lifeless trunk to redeem from the fangs of his barbarous 
conqueror."— SwmZ/wrne's Travels in the Two Sicilies. 



FROM 

CAMOENS AND OTHER POETS. 



Siamo nati veramente in un secolo in cui gl' ingegni e gli sludj degli 
uomini sono rivolti all' utilita. L'Agricoltura, le Arti, il Commer- 
cio acquistano tutto di novi lumi dalle ricerche de'Saggi; e il vo- 
ler farsi un nome tentando di dildtare, quand' altri v' aspira con 
piu giustizia giovando, sembra impresa dura e difficile.— SauioZi. 1 



CAMOENS.— SONNET 70. 

Na metade do Ceo subido ardia. 

High in the glowing heavens, with cloudless beam. 
The sun had reach'd the zenith of his reign, 
And for the living fount, the gelid stream, 
Each flock forsook the herbage of the plain : 
'Midst the dark foliage of the forest-shade, 
The birds had shelter'd from the" scorching ray; 
Hush'd v.-ere their melodies— and grove and glade 
Resounded but the shrill cicada's lay ; 

When through the glassy vale a lovelorn swain. 
To seek the maid who but despised his pain, 
Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion, roved ; 
" Why pine for her," the slighted wanderer cried, 
" By whom thou art not loved ?"— and thus replied 
An echo's murmuringvoice — " Tliou art not loved P' 



CAMOENS.— SONNET 282. 

FROM PSALM CXXXVII. 



Na ribeira do Euphrates assentado. 



Wrapt in sad musings by Euphrates' stream 
I sat, retracing days for ever flown, 
While rose thine image on the exile's dream, 
O much-loved Salem ! and thy glories gone. 

When they who caused the ceaseless tears I shed. 
Thus to their captive spoke,— Why sleep thy lays ? 
Sing of thy treasures lost, thy splendour fled. 
And all thy triumphs in departed days ! 

"Knovv'st thou not, Harmony's resistless charm 
Can soothe each passion, and each grief disarm ? 
Sing then, and tears will vanish from thine eye." 
With sighs I answer'd,— " When the cup of woe 
Is fill'd, till misery's bitter draught o'erflow. 
The mourner's cure is not to sing, — but die." 



CAMOENS.— PART OF ECLOGUE 15. 



Se la no assento da maior alteza. 



If in thy glorious home above 
Thou still recallest earthly love, 
If yet retain'd a thought may be 
Of him whose heart hath bled for thee ; 

Remember still how deeply shrined 
Thine image in his joyless mind. 
Each well-known scene, each former care, 
Forgotten— thou alone art there ! 

Remember that thine eye-beam's light 
Hath fled for ever from his sight, 
And with that vanish'd sunshine, lost 
Is every hope he cherish'd most. 

Think that his life from thee apart. 
Is all but weariness of heart. 
Each stream whose music once was dear, 
Now murmurs discords to his ear. 

Through thee, the morn, whose cloudless rays 
Woke him to joy in other days. 
Now in the light of beauty drest, 
Brings but new sorrows to his breast. 

Through thee, the heavens are dark to him. 
The sun's meridian blaze is dim ; 
And harsh were e'en the bird of eve. 
But that her song still loves to grieve. 

All it hath been, his heart forgets, 
So alter'd by its long regrets ; 
Each wish is changed, each hope is o'er, 
And joy's light spirit wakes no more. 



80 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



CAMOENS— SONNET 271. 



A formosura desta freeca s 



This mountain scene, with sylvan grandeur 

crovvn'd; 
These chestnut woods, in summer verdure bright ; 
These founts and rivulets, whose mingling sound 
Lulls every bosom to serene delight ; 

Soft on these hills the sun's declining ray ; 

This clime where all is new; these murmuring 

seas ; 
Flocks to the fold that bend their lingering way; 
Light clouds contending with the geniafl breeze; 

And all that Nature's lavish hands dispense, 
In gay luxuriance, charming every sense, 
Ne'er in thy absence, can delight my breast: 
Naught without thee my weary soul beguiles; 
And joy may beam, yet 'midst her brightest smiles 
A secret grief is mine that will not rest. 



CAMOENS.— SONNET 186. 



Os olhos onde o casto Amor ardia. 



Those eyes, vi'hence Love diffused his purest light, 
Proud in such beaming orbs his reign to show ; 
That face, with tints of mingling lustre bright, 
Where the rose mantled o'er the living snow ; 

The rich redundance of that golden hair. 
Brighter than sunbeams of meridian day ; 
That form so graceful, and that hand so fair, 
Where now those treasures 7 — mouldering into 
clay ! 

Thus, like some blossom prematurely torn, 
Hath young Perfection wither'd in its morn, 
Touch'd by the hand that gathers but to blight ! 
Oh ! how could Love survive his bitter tears ? 
Shed, not for her who mounts to happier spheres, 
But for his own sad fate, thus wrapt in starless 
night ! 



CAMOENS— SONNET 108. 



Brandas aguas do Tejo que passando. 



Fair Tajo! thou, whose calmly-flowing tide 
Bathes the fresh verdure of these lovely plains. 
Enlivening all where'er thy waves may glide. 
Flowers, herbage, flocks, and sylvan nymphs, and 
swains : 

Sweet stream ! I know not when my steps again 
Shall tread thy shores; and while to part I mourn, 
I have no hope to meliorate my pain. 
No dream that whispers — I may yet return ! 

My frowning destiny, whose watchful care 
Forbids me blessings, and ordains despair. 
Commands me thus to leave thee and repine: 
And I must vainly mourn the scenes I fly, 
And breathe on other gales my plaintive sigh. 
And blend my tears with other waves than thine ! 



CAMOENS.— SONNET 33. 
TO A LADY WHO DIED AT SEA. 

Chara minha inimiga, em cujamao. 



Thou, to whose power my hopes, my joys, I gave, 
O fondly loved ! my bosom's dearest care ! 
Earth, which denied to lend thy form a grave, 
Yields not one spell to soothe my deep despair! 



Yes ! the wild seas entomb those charms divine, 
Dark o'er thy head th' eternal billows roll ; 
But while one ray of life or thought is mine, 
Still shalt thou live, the inmate of my soul. 

And if the tones of my uncultured song 
Have power the sad remembrance to prolong, 
Of love so ardent, and of faith so pure ; 
Still shall my verse thine epitaph remain. 
Still shall thy charms be deathless in my strain, 
While Time, and Love, and Memory shall endure. 



CAMOENS.— SONNET 19. 



Alma minha gentil, que le partiste. 



Spirit beloved ! whose wing so soon hath flown 
The joyless precincts of this earthly sphere. 
Now is yon heaven eternally thine own. 
Whilst I deplore thy loss, a captive here. 

Oh! if allow'd in thy divine abode 
Of aught on earth an image to retain. 
Remember still the fervent love which glow'd 
Li my fond bosom, pure from every stain. 

And if thou deem that all my faithful grief, 
Caused by thy loss, and hopeless of relief. 
Can merit thee, sweet native of the skies ! 
Oh ! ask of heaven, which call'd thee soon away, 
That I may join thee in those realms of day. 
Swiftly, as thou hast vanish'd from mine eyes. 



CAMOENS. 



Que estranho caso de amor ! 

How strange a fate in love is mine ! 
How dearly prized the pains I feel ! 
Pangs that to rend my soul combine. 

With avarice I conceal : 
For did the world the tale divine. 
My lot would then be deeper woe. 
And mine is grief that none must know. 

To mortal ears I may not dare 
Unfold the cause, the pain I prove ; 
'Twould plunge in ruin and despair, 
Or me, or her I love. 
My soul delights alone to bear 
Her silent, unsuspected woe. 
And none shall pity, none shall know. 

Thus buried in my bosom's urn. 
Thus in my inmost heart conceal'd. 
Let me alone the secret mourn. 
In pangs unsoothed and unreveal'd. 
For whether happiness or woe. 
Or life or death its power bestow. 
It is what none on earth must know. 



CAMOENS.— SONNET 58. 



Se as penas com que Amor tao mal me trata. 



Should Love, the tyrant of my suffering heart, 
Yet long enough protract his votary's days 
To see the lustre from those eyes depart, 
The lode-stars now,* that fascinate my gaze ; 

To see rude Time the living roses blight. 
That o'er thy cheek their loveliness unfold. 
And all unpitying change thy tresses bright. 
To silvery whiteness, from their native gold ; 

Oh ! then my heart an equal change will prove, 
And mourn the coldness that repell'd my love, 
When tears and penitence will all be vain ; 
And I shall see thee weep for days gone by. 
And in thy deep regret and fruitless sigh. 
Find amplest vengeance for ray former pain. 

" Your eyes are lode-stars." Sliakspcare, 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



81 



CAMOENS— SONNET 178. 



Ja cantei, ja chorei a dura guerra. 



Oft have I sung and mourn'd the bitter woes, 
Which Love for years hath mingled with my fate, 
Wliile he the tale forbade me to disclose. 
That taught his votaries their deluded state. 

Nymphs! who dispense Castalia's living stream, 
Ye, who from Death oblivion's mantle steal. 
Grant me a strain in powerful tone supreme. 
Each grief by love inflicted to reveal ; 

That those, whose ardent hearts adore his sway, 
May hear experience breathe a warning lay. 
How false his smiles, his promises how vain ; 
Then, if ye deign this effort to inspire. 
When the sad task is o'er, my plaintive lyre. 
For ever hush'd, shall slumber in your fane. 



CAMOENS.— SONNET 



Como quando do mar tempestuoao. 



Saved from the perils of the stormy wave, 
And faint with toil, the wanderer of the main, 
But just escaped from shipwreck's billowy grave, 
Trembles to hear its horrors named again. 

How warm his vow, that Ocean's fairest mien 
No more shall lure him from the smiles of home ; 
Yet soon, forgetting each terrific scene. 
Once more he turns, o'er boundless deeps to roam. 

Lady ! thus I, who vainly oft in flight 

Seek refuge from the dangers of thy sight. 

Make the firm vow, to shun thee and be free : 

But my fond heart, devoted to its chain, 

Still draws me back where countless perils reign. 

And grief and ruin spread their snares for me. 



CAMOENS— SONNET 239. 

FROM PSALM CXXXVII. 



Embabylonia sobre os rios, quando. 



Beside the streams of Babylon, in tears 
Of vain desire, we sat; remembering thee, 
O hallow'd Sion ! and the vanish'd years, 
When Israel's chosen sons were blest and free ; 

Our harps, neglected and untuned, we hung 
Mute on the willows of the stranger's land ; 
When songs, like those that in thy fanes we sung. 
Our foes demanded from their captive-band. 

How shall our voices, on a foreign shore, 

(We answer'd those whose chains the exile wore,) 

The songs of God, our sacred songs, renew ? 

If I forget, 'midst grief and wasting toil, 

Thee, O Jerusalem! my native soilT 

May my right hand forget its cunning too ! 



CAMOENS.— SONNET 128. 



Huma admiravel herva se conhece. 



There blooms a plant, whose gaze, from hour to 

hour, 
Still to the sun with fond devotion turns. 
Wakes when Creation hails his dawning power. 
And most expands, when most her idol burns: 

But when he seeks the bosom of the deep. 
His faithful plant's reflected charms decay ; 
Then fade her flowers, her leaves fliscolour'd weep 
Still fondly pining for the vanish'd ray. 
11 



Thou whom I love, the day-star of my sight! 
When thy dear presence wakes me to delight 
Joy m my soul unfolds her fairest flower • 
But in thy heaven of smiles alone it blooms, 
And of their light deprived, in grief consumes. 
Born but to live within thine eye-beam's power 



CAMOENS. 

PqIo meu aparlamento. 

Amidst the bitter tears that fell 

In anguish at my last farewell. 

Oh ! who would dream that joy could dwell 

To make that moment bright •? ' 

Yet be my judge, each heart! and say 
Which then could most my bosom sway 

Affliction, or delight ? 

It was when Hope, oppress'd with woes, 
beem d her dim eyes in death to close 
That rapture's brightest beam arose 

In sorrow's darkest night. 
Thus if my soul survive that hour, 
'T IS that my fate o'ercame the power 

Of anguish with delight. 

For oh! her love, so long unknown. 
She then confest, was all my own. 
And in that parting hour alone 

Reveal'd it to my sight. 
And now what pangs willrend my soul 
Should fortune still, with stern control,' 

Forbid me this delight. 

I know not if my bliss were vain. 
For all the force of parting pain 
Forbade suspicious doubts to reign. 

When exiled from her sight ; 
Yet now what double woe forme, 
Just at the close of eve, to see 

The day-spring of delight. 



CAMOENS.— SONNET 205. 



Quem di2 que Amor he (also, o enganoso. 

He who proclaims that Love is light and vain 
Capricious, cruel, false in all his ways ; ' 

Ah! sure too well has merited his pain. 
Too justly finds him all he thus portrays. 

For Love is pitying, Love is soft and kind ; 
Believe not him who dares the tale oppose • 
Oh ! deem him one whom stormy passions blind, 
One to whom earth and heaven may well be foes. 

If Love bring evils, view them all in me! 
Here let the world his utmost rigour see, 
His utmost power exerted to annoy : 
But all his ire is still the ire of Love ! 
And such delight in all his woes I prove, 
I would not change their pangs for aught of otlier 
joy! 



CAMOENS— SONNET 133. 



Doces, e claras aguas do Mondego. 

Waves of Mondego! brilliant and serene. 
Haunts of my thought, where memory fondly 

strays ; 
Where hope allured me with perfidious mien, 
Witching my soul, in long-departed days ; 

Yes : I forsake your banks ; but still my heart 
Shall bid remembrance all your charms restore. 
And, sufiering not one image to depart. 
Find lengthening distance but endear you more. 



82 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



Let fortune's will, throuf^h many a future day, 
To distant realms this mortal frame convey. 
Sport of each wind, and tost on every wave ! 
Yet my fond soul, to pensive memory true. 
On thought's light pinion still shall fly to you, 
And still, bright waters, in your current lave. 



CAMOENS.— SONNET 181. 



Onde acharei lugar tao apartado. 



Where shall I find some desert-scene so rude, 
Where loneliness so undisturb'd may reign. 
That not a step shall ever there intrude 
Of roving man, or nature's savage train? 

Some tangled thicket, desolate and drear, 
Or deep wild forest, silent as the tomb. 
Boasting no verdure bright, no fountain clear. 
But darkly suited to my spirit's gloom ? 

That there 'midst frowning rocks, alone with 

grief 
Bntomb'd in life, and hopeless of relief. 
In lonely freedom I may breathe my woes — 
For oil ! since naught my sorrows can allay. 
There shall my sadness cloud no festal day. 
And days of gloom shall soothe me to repose. 



CAMOENS.— SONNET 278. 



Eu vivia de lagrimas isento. 

Exempt from every grief, 't was mine to live 
In dreams so sweet, enchantments so divine, 
A thousand joys propitious Love can give. 
Were scarcely worth one rapturous pain of ijiine. 

Bound by soft spells, in dear illusions blest, 
I breathed no sigh for fortune or for power; 
No care intruding to disturb my breast, 
I dwelt entranced in Love's Elysian bower : 

But Fate, such transports eager to destroy. 
Soon rudely woke me from the dream of joy, 
And bade the phantoms of deliglit begone ! 
Bade hope and happiness at once depart. 
And left but memory to distract my heart, 
Retracing every hour of bliss for ever flown. 



CAMOENS. 

Mi nueve y dulce querella. 



No searching eye can pierce the veil 
That o'er my secret love is thrown ; 
No outward signs reveal its tale, 

But to my bosom known, 
Thus like the spark, whose vivid light 
In the dark flint is liid from sight, 

It dwells within, alone. 



METASTASIO. 



Donque si sfoga in pianto. 

In tears, the heart oppress'd with grief 
Gives language to its woes ; 

In tears, its fullness finds relief. 

When rapture's tide o'erflows ! 



Who then unclouded bliss would seek 
On this terrestrial sphere ; 

When e'en Delight can only speak, 
Like Sorrow— in a tear? 



VINCENZIO DA FILICAJA. 

Italia ! Italia ! tu cui feo la sorte. 

Italia ! thou by lavish Nature graced 

With ill starr'd beauty, which to thee hath been 

A fatal dowry, whose effects are traced 

In the deep sorrows graven on thy mien ; 

Oh ! that more strength, or fewer charms, were 

thine. 
That those might fear thee more, or love thee less. 
Who seem to worship at thy beauty's shrine, 
Then leave thee to the death-pang's bitterness! 

Not then the herds of Gaul would drain the tide 
Of that Eridanus thy blood had dyed ; 
Nor from the Alps would legions, still renew'd. 
Pour down ; nor wouldst thou wield a foreign 

brand. 
Nor fight thy battles with the stranger's hand, 
Still doom'd to serve, subduing or subdued! 



PASTORINl. 



Geneva mia, se con asciutto ciglio. 



If thus thy fallen grandeur I behold. 
My native Genoa ! with a tearless eye, 
Tliink not thy son's ungrateful heart is cold, 
But know— I deem rebellious every sigh! 

Thy glorious ruins proudly I survey. 

Trophies of firm resolve, of patriot might! 

And in each trace of devastation's way 

Thy worth, thy courage, meet my wandering sight. 

Triumphs far less than suffering virtue shine ! 
And on the spoilers high revenge is thine, 
While thy strong spirit unsubdued remains. 
And lo ! fair Liberty rejoicing flies, 
To kiss each noble relic, while she cries, 
'■'■Hail! though in ruins, thouwert ne'er in chains !' 



LOPE DE VEGA. 



Estese el cortesano. 

Let the vain courtier waste his days, 
Lured by the charms that wealth displays, 

The couch of down, the board of costly fare ; 
Be his to kiss th' ungrateful hand 
That waves the sceptre of command, 

And rear full many a palace in the air; 
Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined, 
The glowing sun, the genial wind. 

And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assign'd; 
And prize far more, in peace and health, 

Contented indigence, than joyless wealth. 

Not mine in Fortune's face to bend, 

At Grandeur's altar to attend, 
Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown ; 

Nor mine a fond aspiring thought, 

A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught 
With Fame's bright phantom, Glory's deathless 
crown ! 

Nectareous draughts and viands pure. 

Luxuriant Nature will insure ; 

These the clear fount, and fertile field, 

Still to the wearied shepherd yield ; 

And when repose and visions reign. 
Then we are equals all, the monarch and the swain, 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



83 



FRANCISCO MANUEL. 

ON ASCENDING A HILL LEADING TO A CONVENT. 



No baxes temeroso, o peregrine. 



Pause not with lingering foot, O pilgrim, here ; 
Pierce the deep shadows of the mountain-side ; 
Firm be thy step, thy heart unknown to fear. 
To brighter worlds this tliorny path will guide. 

Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode. 
So near the mansions of supreme delight ; 
Pause not — but tread this consecrated road, 
'T is the dark basis of the heavenly height. 

Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way, 
How many a fountain glitters down the hill! 
Pure gales, inviting, softly round tliee play. 
Bright sunshine guides — and wilt thou linger still ? 
Ohl enter there, where, freed from human strife, 
Hope is reality, and time is life. 



DELLA CASA. 

VENICE. 



Questi palazzi, e queste logge or colte. 



These marble domes, by wealth and genius graced 
With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian 

stone. 
Were once rude cabins 'midst a lonely waste, 
Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown. 

Pure from each vice, 'twas here a virtuous train 
Fearless in fragile barks explored the sea ; 
Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign. 
They sought these island-precincts — to be free. 

Ne'er in their souls ambition's flame arose, 
No dream of avarice broke their calm repose ; 
Fraud, more than death abhorr'd each artless 

breast : 
Oh! now, since Fortune gilds their brightening day. 
Let not those virtues languish and decay, 
O'erwhelm'd by luxury, and by wealth opprest! 



IL MARCHESE CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO. 



L'anima bella, che dai vero Eliso. 



The sainted spirit, which from bliss on high 
Descends like day-spring to my favour'd sight. 
Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky. 
Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright ! 

But with the sweetness of her well-known smile. 
That smile of peace ! she bids ray doubts depart, 
And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while. 
And heaven's full glory pictures to my heart. 

Beams of that heaven in her my eyes behold. 
And now, e'en now, in thought my wings unfold 
To soar with her, and mingle with the blest! 
But ah! so swift her buoyant pinion flies, 
That I, in vain aspiring to the skies. 
Fall to my native sphere by earthly bonds deprest. 



METASTASIO. 

Al furor d'avversa sorte. 



He shall not dread Misfortune's angry mien. 
Nor feebly sink beneath her tempest rude. 
Whose soul hath learn'd, through many a tryina 

scene. 
To smile at fate, and suflTer unsubdued. 



In the rough school of billows, clouds, and storms 
Nursed and matured, the pilot learns his art: 
Thus Fate's dread ire, by many a conflict, forms 
The lofty spirit and enduring heart! 



METASTASIO. 



Quella onda che i 



The torrent-wave, that breaks with force 
Impetuous down the Alpine height, 
Complains and struggles in its course, 
But sparkles, as the diamond bright. 

The stream in shadowy valley deep 
May slumber in its narrow bed ; 
But silent in unbroken sleep, 
Its lustre and its life are fled. 



METASTASIO. 



Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie. 



Sweet rose ! whose tender foliage to expand, 
Her fostering dews the morning lightly shed. 
Whilst gales of balmy breath thy blossoms fann'd, 
And o'er thy leaves the soft suffusion spread ; 

That hand whose care withdrew thee from the 

ground, 
Tobrigliter worlds thy favour'd charms hath borne ; 
Thy fairest buds, with grace perennial crown'd. 
There breathe and bloom, released from every 

thorn. 

Thus, far removed, and now, transplanted flower ! 
Exposed no more to blast or tempest rude, 
Shelter'd with tenderest care from frost or shower. 
And each rough season's chill vicissitude. 
Now may thy form in bowers of peace assume 
Immortal fragrance, and unwithering bloom. 



METASTASIO. 



Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine. 

Fortune! why thus, where'er my footsteps tread, 
Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like 

these 1 
Think'st thou that / thy threatening mien shall 

dread. 
Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize ? 

Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude. 
For vassal-spirits that confess thy sway I 
My constant soul could triumph unsubdued, 
Were the wide universe destruction's prey. 

Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried? 
No! I have long thine utmost power defied, 
And drawn fresh energies from every fight. 
Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel , 
With each successive shock the temper'd steel 
More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling bright. 



METASTASIO. 



Parlagli d' un periglio. 



WouLDST thou to Love of danger speak ?- 
Veil'd are his eyes, to perils blind ! 
Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek ? — 
He is a child of wayward mind ! 



84 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



But witli a doubt, a jealous fear, 
Inspire liim once— the task is o'er ; 
His mind is keen, his sight is clear, 
No more an infant, blind no more. 



METASTASIO. 



Sprezza il furor del vento. 



Unbending 'midst the wintry skies, 
Rears the firm oak his vigorous form. 
And stern in rugged strength defies 
The rushing of the storm ; 

Then sever'd from his native shore. 
O'er ocean worlds the sail to bear, 
Still with those winds he braved before. 
He proudly struggles there. 



METASTASIO. 



Sol puo dir che sic contento. 

Oh! those alone, whose sever'd hearts 
Have mourn'd through lingering years in vain, 
Can tell what bliss fond love imparts. 
When Fate unites them once again: 

Sweet is the sigh, and blest the tear, 
Whose language hails that moment bright. 
When past afflictions but endear 
The presence of delight ! 



METASTASIO. 



Ah ! frenate '1 pianto imbelie. 



Ah ! cease — those fruitless tears restrain, 
T go misfortune to defy. 
To smile at fate with proud disdain, 
To triumph— not to die ! 

I with fresh laurels go to crown 
My closing days at last. 
Securing all the bright renown 
Acquired in dangers past. 



QUEVEDO. 
ROME BURIED IN HER OWN RUINS. 



Euscas en Roma a Roma, o peregrino ! 



AMIDST these scenes, O pilgrim ! seek'st thou 

Rome ? 
Vain is thy search — the pomp of Rome is fled ; 
Her silent Aventine is glory's tomb; 
Her walls, her shrines, but relics of tlie dead. 

That hill where Ca;sars dwelt in other days 
Forsaken mourns, where once it tower'd sublime; 
Each mouldering medal now far less displays 
The triumphs won by Latium, than by Time. 

Tiber alone survives— the passing wave. 

That bathed her towers, now murmurs by her 

grave. 
Wailing, with plaintive sound, her fallen fanes. 
Rome! of thine ancient grandeur all is past, 
That seem'd for years eternal framed to last. 
Naught but the wave, a fugitive— remains. 



EL CONDE JUAN DE TARSIS. 



Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernos anos. 



Thou, who hast fled from Life's enchanted bowers, 
In youth's gay spring, in beauty's glowing morn, 
Leaving thy bright array, thy path of flowers. 
For the rude convent-garb, and couch of thorn; 

Thou that, escaping from a world of cares, 
Hast found thy haven in devotion's fane, 
As to the port the fearful bark repairs. 
To shun the midnight perils of the main ; 

Now the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pour. 
While on thy soul the beams of glory rise! 
For if the pilot hail the welcome shore. 
With shouts of triumph swelling to the skies; 
Oh! howshouldst thou the exulting pisan raise. 
Now heaven's bright harbour opens on thy gaze. 



TORQUATO TASSO. 



Ne^li anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa. 



Thou in thy morn wert like a glowing rose. 
To the mild sunshine only half display'd. 
That shunned its bashful graces to disclose. 
And in its vale of verdure nought a shade ; 

Or like Aurora did thy charms appear, 

(Since mortal form ne'er vied with aught so 

bright,) 
Aurora, smiling from her tranquil sphere, 
O'er vale and mountain shedding dew and light ; 

Now riper years have doom'd no grace to fade. 
Nor youthful charms, in all their pride array'd, 
Excel, or equal, thy neglected form. 
Thus, full expanded, lovelier is the flower, 
And the bright day-star, in its noontide hour. 
More briliant shines, in genial radiance warm. 



BERNARDO TASSO. 



Quest' orabra che giammai non vide il sole. 



This green recess, where through the bowery 

gloom 
Ne'er e'en at noontide hours the sunbeam play'd, 
Where violet-beds in soft luxuriance bloom, 
'Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle-shade ; 

Where through the grass a sparkling fountain 

steals. 
Whose murmuring wave, transparent as it flows. 
No more its bed of yellow sand conceals. 
Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose ; 

This bower of peace, thou soother of our care, 
God of soft slumbers, and of visions fair ! 
A lowly shepherd consecrates to thee ! 
Then breathe around some spell of deep repose. 
And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close, 
Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from tear-drops 
never free. 



PETRARCH. 



Chi vuol veder quaatunque puo natuia. 



Thou that wouldst mark, in form of human birth. 
All heaven and nature's perfect skill combined, 
Come gaze on her, the day-star of the earth; 
Dazzling, not me alone, but all mankind : 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



85 



And haste ! for Death, who spares the guilty long, 
First calls the brightest and the best away ; 
And to her home, amidst the cherub-throng, 
The angelic mortal Hies, and will not stay I 

Haste ! and each outward charm, each mental 

grace. 
In one consummate form thine eye shall trace, 
Model of loveliness, for earth too fair ! 
Then thou shalt own, how faint my votive lays, 
My spirit dazzled by perfection's blaze- 
But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare. 



PETRARCH. 



Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde. 



If to the sighing breeze of summer-hours 

Bend the green leaves ; if mourns a plaintive bird; 

Or from some fount's cold margin, fringed with 

flowers. 
The soothing murmur of the wave is heard ; 

Her, whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies, 
I see and hear : though dwelling far above. 
Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs, 
Visits the lone retreat of pensive love. 

" \Vhy thus in grief consume each fruitless day," 
(Her gentle accents thus divinely say,) 
"While from thine eyes the tear unceasing flows? 
Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight. 
Died, to be deathless ; and on Heavenly light 
Whose eyes but open'd, when they seera'd to 
close !" 



VERSI SPAGNUOLI DI PIETRO EEMBO. 



Muerte ! que sueles s 



Thou, the stern monarch of dismay, 
Whom Nature trembles to survey. 
Oh Death ! to me, the child of grief. 
Thy welcome power would bring relief. 

Changing to peaceful slumber many a care. 
And though thy stroke may thrill with pain 
Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein; 
The pangs that bid existence close. 
Ah! sure are far less keen than those 

Which cloud its lingering moments with despair. 



FRANCESCO LORENZINI. 



Zeliretto, che movendo vai. 



Sylph of the breeze! whose dewy pinions light 
Wave gently round the tree I planted here. 
Sacred to her, whose soul hath wing'd its flight 
To the pure ether of her lofty sphere ; 

Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale! 
To fan its leaves in summer's noontide hour; 
Be it thy care, that wintry tempests fail 
To rend its honours from the sylvan bower. 

Then shall it spread, and rear th' aspiring form, 
Pride of the wood, secure from every storm. 
Graced with her name, a consecrated tree! 
So may thy lord, the monarch of the wind. 
Ne'er with rude chains by tender pinions bind. 
But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and 
free! 



GESSNER. 
MORNING SONG. 



Willkommen, fruhe morgensonn. 

Hail! morning sun, thus early bright; 
Welcome, sweet dawn ! thou younger day! 
Through the dark woods that fringe the height 
Beams forth, e'en now, the ray. 

Bright on the dew, it sparkles clear, 

Bright on the water's glittering fall. 

And life, and joy, and health appear, 

Sweet morning! at thy call. 

Now thy fresh breezes lightly spring 
From beds of fragrance, vi'here they lay, 
And roving wild on dewy wing, 
Drive slumber far away. 

Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat. 
Now from each mind withdraw their spell, 
While the young loves delighted meet. 
On Rosa's cheek to dwell. 

Speed, zephyr! kiss each opening flower, 
Its fragrant spirit make thine own ; 
Then wing thy way to Rosa's bower, 
Ere her light sleep is flown. 

Then o'er her downy pillow, fly, 
Wake the sweet maid to life and day; 
Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh, 
And o'er her bosom play ; 

And whisper when her eyes unveil. 

That I, since morning's earliest call 

Have sigh'd her name to every gale, 

By the lone waterfall. 



GERMAN SONG. 



Madchen, lermet Amor ketmen. 



Listen, fair maid, my song shall tell 
How Love may still be known full well, 

His looks the traitor prove ; 
Dost thou not see that absent smile. 
That fiery glance replete with guile? 

Oh ! doubt not then — 't is Love. 

When varying still the sly disguise. 
Child of caprice, he laughs and cries. 

Or with complaint would move : 
To-day is bold, to-morrow shy, 
Changing each hour he knows not why, 

Oh ! doubt not then— 'tis Love. 

There 's magic in his every wile. 
His lips, well practised to beguile. 

Breathe roses when they move ; 
See. now with sudden rage he burns. 
Disdains, implores, commands, by turns; 

Oh ! doubt not then— 't is Love. 

He comes— without the bow and dart. 
That spare not e'en the purest heart ; 

His looks the traitor prove ; 
That glance is fire, that mien is guile, 
Deceit is lurking in that smile. 

Oh ! trust him not— 't is Love ! 



CHAULIEU. 

Grotte, d'ou sort ce clair ruisseau. 

Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring 
Its margin fringed with moss and flowers, 
Still bid its voice of murmurs bring 
Peace to my musing hours. 



86 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



Sweet Fontenay ! where first for me 
The day-spring of existence rose, 
Soon shall my dust return to thee, 
And 'midst my sires repose. 

Muses, that watch'd my childhood's morn, 
'Midst these wild haunts, with guardian eye. 
Pair trees, that there beheld me born. 
Soon shall ye see me die. 



GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 

Coged de vuestra alegre primavera. 

Enjoy the sweets of life's luxuriant May, 
Ere envious Age is hastening on its way. 
With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteous brow; 
The rose will fade when storms assail the year. 
And Time, who changeth not his swift career, 
Constant in this, will change all else below ! 



MISCELIiANEOUS. 
LINES 

WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE. 

O WANDERER ! would thy heart forget 

Each earthly passion and regret, 

And would thy wearied spirit rise 

To commune with its native skies; 

Pause for awhile, and deem it sweet 

To linger in this calm retreat ; 
And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense, 
Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence. 

Unmix'd with aught of meaner tone. 
Here nature's voice is heard alone : 
When the loud storm, in wrathful hour. 
Is rushing on its wing of power, 
And spirits of the deep awake. 
And surges foam, and billows break, 
And rocks and ocean-caves around. 
Reverberate each awful sound ; 
That mighty voice, with all its dread control. 
To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul. 

But when no more the sea winds rave. 
When peace is brooding on the wave. 
And from earth, air, and ocean, rise 
No sounds but plaintive melodies; 
Soothed by their softly mingling swell. 
As daylight bids the world farewell, 
The rustling wood, the dying breeze. 
The faint, low rippling of the seas, 
A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast, 
A gleam reflected from the realms of rest. 

Is thine a heart the world hath stung, 

Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung? 

Hast thou some grief that none may know. 

Some lonely, secret, silent woe? 

Or have thy fond affections fled 

From earth, to slumber with the dead ? 

Oh! pause awhile — the world disown. 

And dwell with Nature's self alone! 

And though no more she bids arise 

Thy soul's departed energies. 

And though thy joy of life is o'er. 

Beyond her magic to restore ; 
Yet shall her spells o'er every passion steal. 
And soothe the wounded heart they cannot heal. 



DIRGE OF A CHILD. 

No bitter tears for thee be shed, 
Blossom of being! seen and gone ! 
With flowers alone we strew thy bed, 
O blest departed One ! 



Whose all of life, a rosy ray, 
Blush'd into dawn, and pass'd away. 

Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power 
To stain thy cherub-soul and form, 
Closed is the soft ephemeral flower, 

That never felt a storm ! 
The sunbeam's smile, the zephyr's breath, 
All that it knew from birth to death. 

Thou wert so like a form of light, 

That Heaven benignly called thee hence, 

Ere yet the world could breathe one blight 

O'er thy sweet innocence: 
And thou, that brighter hojne to bless. 
Art pass'd with all thy loveliness! 

Oh ! hadst thou still on earth remain'd, 

Vision of beauty ! fair, as brief! 

How soon thy brightness had been stain'd 

With passion or with grief! 
Now not a sullying breath can rise, 
To dim thy glory in the skies. 

We rear no marble o'er thy tomb. 

No sculptured image there shall mourn; 

Ah! fitter for the vernal bloom 

Such dwelling to adorn. 
Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be 
The only emblems meet for thee. 

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, 
Adorn'd with Nature's brightest wreath. 
Each glowing season shall combine 

Its incense there to breathe ; 
And oft, upon the midnight air. 
Shall viewless harps be murmuring there. 

And oh! sometimes in visions blest, 

Sweet spirit! visit our repose. 

And bear from thine own world of rest. 

Some balm for human woes ! 
What form more lovely could be given 
Than thine, to messenger of heaven? 



INVOCATION. 



HusH'D is the world in night and sleep. 

Earth, Sea, and Air, are still as death; 

Too rude to break a calm so deep. 

Were music's faintest breath, 

Descend, bright Visions! from aerial bowers. 

Descend to gild your own soft, silent hours. 

In hope or fear, in toil or pain. 

The weary day have mortals past. 

Now, dreams of bliss, be yours to reign, 

And all your spells around them cast; 

Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the 

tear. 
And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere. 

Oh ! bear your softest balm to those. 

Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead. 

To them that world of peace disclose, 

Where the bright soul is fled : 

Where Love, immortal in his native clime. 

Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time. 

Or to his loved, his distant land, 

On your light wings the exile bear ; 

To feel once more his heart expand. 

In his own genial mountain-air; 
Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat. 
And bless each note, as heaven's own music sweet. 

But oh ! with Fancy's brightest ray. 
Blest dreams ! the bard's repose illume ; , 
Bid forms of heaven around him play. 
And bowers of Eden bloom ! 
And waft liis spirit to its native skies. 
Who finds no charm in life's realities. 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



87 



No voice is on the air of niglit, 
Througli folded leaves no murmuvs creep, 
Nor star nor moonbeam's trembling light 
Falls on the placid brow of sleep. 
Descend, bright visions, from your airy bovver, 
Dark, silent, solemn, is your favourite hour. 



TO THE MEMORY OF 
GENERAL SIR EDWARD PACKENHAM. 



Brave spirit ! mourn'd with fond regret, 
Lost in life's pride, in valour's noon. 
Oh! who could deem thy star should set 
So darkly and so soon ? 

Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind. 
Which mark'd and closed thy brief career, 
And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined, 
Lies wither'd on thy bier. 

The soldier's death hath been thy doom, 
The soldier's tear thy meed shall be ; 
Yet, son of war ! a prouder tomb 

Might Fate have rear'd for thee. 

Thou shouldst have died, O high-soul'd chief! 
In those bright days of glory fled. 
When triumph so prevail'd o'er grief. 
We scarce could mourn the dead. 

Noontide of fame ! each teardrop then 
Was worthy of a warrior's grave- 
When shall affection weep again 
So proudly o'er the brave ? 

There, on the battle-fields of Spain, 
'Midst Roncesvalles' mountain-scene. 
Or on Vittoria's blood-red plain, 

Meet had thy death-bed been. 

We mourn not that a hero's life, 
Thus in its ardent prime should close ; 
Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife. 
But died 'midst conquer'd foes! 

Yet hast thou still (though victory's flame 
In that last moment cheer'd thee not) 
Left Glory's isle another name. 
That ne'er may be forgot : 

And many a tale of triumph won 
Shall breathe that name in Memory's ear. 
And long may England mourn a son 
Without reproach or fear. 



TO THE MEMORY OF 
SIR HENRY E— LL— S, 

WHO FELL IN THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 



Weep'st thou for him whose doom was seal'd 
On England's proudest battle-field ? 
For him, the lion-heart, who died 
In victory's full, resistless tide? 

Oh ! mourn him not, 
By deeds like his that field was won, 
And Fate could yield to Valour's son 

No brighter lot. 

He heard his band's exulting cry, 
He saw the vanquish'd eagles fly ; 
And envied be his death of fame. 
It shed a sunbeam o'er his name, 

That naught shall dim- 
No cloud obscured his glory's day, 
It saw no twilight of decay — 

Weep not for him ! 



And breathe no dirge's plaintive moan, 
A hero claims far loftier tone 1 
Oh ! proudly should the war-song swell, 
Recording how the mighty fell 

In that dread hour, 
When England, 'midst the battle-storm, 
Th' avenging angel— rear'd her form 

In tenfold power. 

Yet, gallant heart ! to swell thy praise. 
Vain were the minstrel's noblest lays ; 
Since he, the soldier's guiding-star, 
The victor-chief, the lord of war. 

Has own'd thy fame : 
And oh ! like his approving word. 
What trophied marble could record 

A warrior's name t 



GUERILLA SONG. 



Founded on the story related of the Spanish Patriot, Mina. 



Oh ! forgot not the hour, when through forest and 

vale, 
We return'd with ourchief to his dear native halls; 
Through the woody Sierra there sigh'd not a gale. 
And the moonbeam was bright on his battlement- 
walls ; 
And Nature lay sleeping, in calmness and light. 
Round the home of the valiant, that rose on our 
sight. 

We enter'd that home — all was loneliness round, 
The stillness, the darkness, the peace of the grave ; 
Not a voice, not a step, bade its echoes resound. 
Ah ! such was the welcome that waited the brave I 
For the spoilers had pass'd, like the poison-wind's 

breath. 
And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death. 

Oh ! forget not that hour — let its image be near. 
In the light of our mirth, in the dreams of our rest. 
Let its tale awake feelings too deep for a tear. 
And rouse into vengeance each arm and each 

breast, 
Till cloudless the day-spring of liberty shine 
O'er the plains of the olive, and hills of the vine. 



THE AGED INDIAN. 

Warriors ! my noon of life is past. 
The brightness of my spirit flown ; 
I crouch before the wintry blast, 
Amidst my tribe I dwell alone; 
The heroes of my youth are fled. 
They rest among the warlike dead. 

Ye slumberers of the narrow cave ! 

My kindred-chiefs in days of yore. 

Ye fill an unremember'd grave, 

Your fame, your deeds, are known no more. 

The records of your wars arc gone, 

Your names forgot by all but one. 

Soon shall that one depart from earth, 
To join the brethren of his prime ; 
Then will the memory of your birth 
Sleep with the hidden things of time ! 
With him, ye sons of former days ! 
Fades the last glimmering of your praise. 

His eyes, that hail'd your spirit's flame, 
Still kindling in the combat's shock. 
Have seen, since darkness veil'd your fame, 
Sons of the desert and the rock ! 
Another, and another race. 
Rise to the battle, and the chase. 

Descendants of the mighty dead ! 
Fearless of heart, and firm of hand ! 
Oh! let me join their spirits fled, 
Oh ! send me to their shadowy land. 
Age hath not tamed Ontara's heart, 
He shrinks not from the friendly dart. 



88 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS, 



These feet no more can chase the deer, 
The glory of this arm is flown — 
Why should the feeble linger here, 
When all the pride of life is gone ? 
Warriors! why still the stroke deny. 
Think ye Ontara fears to die ? 

He fear'd not in his flower of days, 
When strong to stem the torrent's force, 
When through the desert's pathless maze, 
His way was as an eagle's course ! 
When war was sunshine to his sight, 
And the wild hurricane, delight ! 

Shall then the warrior tremble noto 7 
Now when his envied strength is o'er? 
Hung on the pine his idle bow, 
His pirogue useless on the shore ? 
When death hath dimm'd his failing eye, 
Shall he, the joyless, fear to die ? 

Sons of the brave! delay no more, 
The spirits of my kindred call ! 
'Tis but one pang, and all is o'er ! 
Oh ! bid the aged cedar fall ! 
To join the brethren of his prime, 
The mighty of departed time. 



EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS. 



Soft skies of Italy! how richly drest. 
Smile these wild scenes in your purpurea! glow ; 
What glorious hues, reflected from the west. 
Float o'er the dwellings of eternal snow ! 

Yon torrent, foaming down the granite steep. 
Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam ; 
Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep. 
Where pipes the goat-herd by his mountain-stream. 

Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray, 
That still at eve its lofty temple knows ; 
From rock and torrent fade the tints away, 
And all is wrapt in twilight's deep repose ; 
While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper- 
star. 
And roves the Alpine gale o'er solitudes afar. 



DIRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CHIEF IN 
" WAVERLEY." 



Son of the mighty and the free I 
High-minded leader of the brave! 
Was it for lofty chief like thee. 

To fill a nameless grave ? 
Oh ! if, amidst the valiant slain, 
The warrior's bier had been thy lot. 
E'en though on red Culloden's plain. 

We then had mourn'd thee not. 

But darkly closed thy dawn of fame. 
That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair ; 
Vengeance alone may breathe thy name. 

The watchword of Despair ! 
Yet oh ! if gallant spirit's power 
Had e'er ennobled death like thine. 
Then glory mark'd thy parting hour. 

Last of a mighty line ! 

O'er thy own towers the sunshine falls. 
But cannot chase their silent gloom ; 
Those beams, that gild thy native walls. 

Are sleeping on thy tomb ; 
Spring on thy mountains laughs the while. 
Thy green woods wave in vernal air, 
But the loved scenes may vainly smile 

Not e'en thy dust is there. 

On thy blue hills no bugle-sound 
Is mingling with the torrent's roar, 
Unraark'd the wild deer sport around — 

Thou lead'st the chase no more ! 



Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still, 
Those halls where peal'd the choral strain. 
They hear the wind's deep murmuring tlu'ill- 
A'nd all is hush'd again. 

No banner from the lonely tower 
Shall wave its blazon'd folds on high ; 
There the tall grass and summer flower 

Unmark'd shall spring and die. 
No more thy bard, for other ear. 
Shall wake the harp once loved by thine — 
Hush'd be the strain thou canst not hear. 

Last of a mighty line ! 



THE CRUSADER'S Vl^AR-SONG. 



Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat high, 

Lead on to Salem's towers! 
Who would not deem it bliss to die, 

Slain in a cause like ours? 
The brave who sleep in soil of thine, 
Lie not entomb'd, but shrined, O Palestine! 

Souls of the slain in holy war! 

Look from your sainted rest ! 
Tell us ye rose in Glory's car. 

To mingle with the blest; 
Tell us how short the death-pang's power. 
How bright the joys of your immortal bower. 

Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train ! 

Pour forth your loftiest lays; 
Each heart shall echo to the strain 

Breathed in the warrior's praise. 
Bid every string triumphant swell 
Th' inspiring sounds that heroes love so well. 

Salem ! amidst the fiercest hour 

The wildest rage of fight, 
_ Thy name shall lend our falchions power. 

And nerve our hearts with might. 
Envied be those for thee that fall, 
Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall. 

For them no need that sculptured tomb 

Should chronicle their fame. 
Or pyramid record their doom. 

Or deathless verse their name ; 
It is enough that dust of thine 
Should shroud their forms, O blessed Palestine ! 

Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat high 

For combat's glorious hour ; 
Soon shall the red-cross banner fly 

On Salem's loftiest tower! 
We burn to mingle in the strife. 
Where but to die insures eternal life. 



DEATH OF CLANRONALD. 



It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clan- 
roiiald fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. 
His death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. 
But Glengary, chief of a rival branch of theClan Colla, 
started from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round his 
head, cried out, " To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for 
mourning!" The Highlanders received a new impulse 
from his words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore 
down all before them. See the Quarterly Review, ar- 
ticle of " Culloden Papers." 



Oh! ne'er be Clanronald the valiant forgot ! 
Still fearless and first in the combat, he fell; 
But we paused not one tear-drop to shed o'er the 

spot, 
Wespared not one moment to murmur "Farewell." 
We heard but the battle-word given by the chief, 
"To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!" 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



89 



And wildly, Clanronald ! we echoed the vow. 
With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our 

hand; 
Young son of, the brave ! we may weep for thee 

now, 
For well has thy death been avenged by thy band, 
When they join'd in wild chorus the cry of the 

chief, 
"To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!" 

Thy dirge in that hour, was the bugle's wild call. 
The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave; 
But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall. 
And the soft voice of melody sigh o'er thy grave, 
While Albyn remembers the words of the chief, 
"To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!" 

Thou art fallen, O fearless one ! flower of thy race ! 
Descendant of heroes ! thy glory is set! 
But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase. 
Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet! 
Nor vainly have echoed the words of the chief, 
"To day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!" 



TO THE EYE. 



Throne of expression ! whence the spirit's ray 
Pours forth so oft the light of mental day. 
Where fancy's fire, affection's melting beam. 
Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme. 
And many a feeling, words can ne'er impart. 
Finds its own language to pervade the heart; 
Thy power, bright orb, what bosom hath Hot felt, 
To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt? 
And by some spell of undefined control. 
With magnet-influence touch the secret soul ! 

Light of the features ! in the morn of youth 

Thy glance is nature, and thy language, truth: 

And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway. 

Hath taught e'en thee to flatter and betray, 

Th' ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal, 

Or speak one thought that interest would conceal ; 

While yet thou seem'st the cloudless mirror, given 

But to reflect the purity of heaven ; 

Oh ! then how lovely, there unveil'd to trace 

Th' unsullied brightness of each mental grace ! 

When genius lends thee all his living light, 
W^here the full beams of intellect unite, 
When love illumes thee with his varying ray. 
Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play ; 
Or Pity's melting cloud thy beam subdues. 
Tempering its lustre with a vale of dews; 
Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell 
Can pierce the mazes of the soul so well. 
Bid some new feeling to existence start. 
From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart. 

And oh! when thought, in ecstasy sublime, 
That soars triumphant o'er the bounds of time. 
Fires thy keen glance with inspiration's blaze. 
The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days, 
(As glorious dreams, for utterance far too high. 
Flash through the mist of dim mortality;) 
Who does not own, that through thy lightning 

beams 
A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams? 
That pure, though captive efiluence of the sky. 
The vestal-ray, the spark that cannot die ; 



THE HERO'S DEATH. 



Life's parting beams were in his eye. 
Life's closing accents on his tongue. 
When round him, pealing to the sky. 
The shout of victory rung ! 
12 



Then, ere his gallant spirit fled, 
A smile so bright illumed his face — 
Oil ! never, of the light it shed. 

Shall memory lose a trace ! 

His was a death, whose rapture high 
Transcended all that life could yield ; 
His warmest prayer was so to die. 

On the red battle-field ! 
And they may feel, who loved him most, 
A pride so holy and so pure — 
Fate hath no power o'er those who boast 

A treasure thus secure ! 



STANZAS 

On the late JVational Calamity, the Death of the 
Princess Charlotte. 



"HelasI nous composions son histoire de tout ce 

qu'on pent irnaginer de plus glorieux Le passe et le 

present nous gaiantissoientl'avenir- Telle etoitl'agre- 

able histoire que nous faisions ; et pour achever ces 
nobles projets, il n'y avoit que la duree de sa vie ; dont 
nous ne croyons pas devoir etre en peine, car, qui eut pu 
seulernent penser, que les annees eussent du manquSr a 
un jeunesse qui sembloit si \WeV'—Bossuct. 



Mark'd ye the mingling of the city's throng. 
Each mien, each glance, with expectation bright ? 
Prepare the pageant and the choral song. 
The pealing chimes, the blaze of festal light! 
And hark ! what rumour's gathering sou nd is nigh ? 
Is it the voice of joy, that murmur deep? 
Away, be hush'd ! ye sounds of revelry ! 
Back to your homes, ye multitudes, to weep! 
Weep ! for the storm hath o'er us darkly past. 
And England's royal flower is broken by the blast! 

II. 

Was it a dream ? so sudden and so dread 
That awful fiat o'er our senses came ! 
So loved, so blest, is that young spirit fled. 
Whose early grandeur promised years of fame ? 
Oh ! when hath life possess'd, or death destroy'd. 
More lovely hopes, more cloudlessly that smiled? 
When hath the spoiler left so dark a void ! 
For all is lost — the mother and her child! 
Our morning-star hath vanish'd, and the tomb 
Throws its deep-lengthen'd shade o'er distant 
years to come. 

III. 

Angel of Death ! did no presaging sign 
Announce thy coming, and thy way prepare ? 
No warning voice, no harbinger, was thine. 
Danger and fear seem'd past — but thou wert there ! 
Prophetic sounds along the earthquake's path 
Foretell the hour of Nature's awful throes; 
And the volcano, ere it burst in wrath. 
Sends forth some herald from its dread repose : 
But thou, dark Spirit ! swift and unforeseen, 
Cam'st like the lightning's flash, when heaven is 
all serene. 

IV. 

And she is gone — the royal and the young. 
In soul commanding, and in heart benign ; 
Who, from a race of Kings and Heroes sprung, 
Glow'd with a spirit lofty as her line. 
|. Now may the voice she loved on earth so well. 
Breathe forth her name, unheeded and in vain ; 
Nor can those eyes on which her own would dwell. 
Wake from the breast one sympathy again : 
The ardent heart, the towering mind are fled. 
Yet shall undying love still linger with the dead. 



90 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



V. 

Oh ! many a bright existence we have seen 
Ciuench'd in the glow and fullness of its prime; 
And many a cherish'd flower, ere now, hath been 
Crept, ere its leaves were breathed upon by time. 
We have lost Heroes in their noon of pride, 
Whose fields of triumph gave them but a bier ; 
And we have wept when soaring Genius died, 
Check'd in the glory of his mid career! 
But here our hopes were centred— all is o'er, 
All thought in this absorb'd— she was — and is no 
more ! 

VI. 

We watch'd her childhood from its earliest hour, 
From every word and look blest ojnens caught ; 
While that young mind developed all its power, 
And rose to energies of loftiest thought. 
On her was fix'd the Patriot's ardent eye, 
One hope still bloom'd — one vista still was fair ; 
And when the tempest swept the troubled sky. 
She was our day-spring — all was cloudless there ; 
And oh ! how lovely broke on England's gaze. 
E'en through the mist and storm, the light of dis- 
tant days. 

VII. 

Now hath one moment darken'd future years. 
And changed the track of ages yet to be ! — 
Yet, mortal ! 'midst the bitterness of tears. 
Kneel, and adore th' inscrutable decree ! 
Oh ! while the clear perspective smiled in light. 
Wisdom should then have temper'd hope's excess, 
And, lost One ! when we saw thy lot so bright, 
We might have trembled at its loveliness ; 
Joy is no earthly flower — nor framed to bear, 
In its exotic bloom, life's cold, ungenial air. 

VIII. 

All smiled around thee— Youth, and Love, and 

Praise, 
Hearts all devotion and all truth were thine ! 
On thee was riveted a nation's gaze, 
As on some radiant and unsullied shrine. 
Heiress of empires! thou art pass'd away. 
Like some fair vision that arose to throw, 
O'er one brief hour of life, a fleeting ray. 
Then leave the rest to solitude and woe ! 
Oh! who shall dare to woo such dreams again I 
Who hath not wept to know, that tears for thee 

were vain ! 

IX. 

Yet there is one who loved thee— and whose soul 
With mild aflTections nature forra'd to melt; 
His mind hath bow'd beneath the stern control 
Of many a grief— but this shall be unfelt ! 
Years have gone by — and given his honor'd head 
A diadem of snow — his eye is dim — 
Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath spread. 
The past, the future, are a dream to him ! 
Yet in the darkness of his fate, alone 
He dwells on earth, while thou, in life's lull pride, 
art gone ! 

X. 

The Chastener's hand is on us — we may weep. 
But not repine — for many a storm hath past, 
And, pillow'd on her own majestic deep. 
Hath England slept, unshaken by the blast ! 
And war hath raged o'er many a distant plain. 
Trampling the vine and olive in his path; 
While she, that regal daughter of the main. 
Smiled, in serene defiance of his wrath ; 
As some proud summit, mingling with the sky. 
Hears calmly far below the thunders roll and die. 

XI, 

Her voice hath been th' awakener— and her name, 
The gathering- word of nations— in her might 
And all the awful beauty of her fame, 
Apart she dwelt, in solitary light. 



High on her clifl's, alone and firm she stood, 

Fixing the torch upon her beacon-tower; 

That torch, whose flame, far streaming o'er the 

flood, 
Hath guided Europe through her darkest hour ! — 
Away, vain dreams of glory ! in the dust 
Be humbled, ocean-queen ! and own thy sentence 

just! 

XIL 

Hark ! 't was the death-bell's note ! which full and 

deep, 
Unmix'd with aught of less majestic tone, 
While all the murmurs of existence sleep. 
Swells on the stillness of the air alone! 
Silent the throngs that fill the darken'd street. 
Silent the slumbering Thames, the lonely mart ; 
And all is still, where countless thousands meet. 
Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart ! 
All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene. 
As in each ravaged home th' avenging one had 

been. 

XIII. 

The sun goes down in beauty— his farewell, 
Unlike the world he leaves, is calmly bright ; 
And his last raellow'd rays around us dwell. 
Lingering, as if on scenes of young delight. 
They smile and fade — but when the day is o'er. 
What slowr procession moves, with measured 

tread?— 
Lo ! those who vveep, with her who weeps no more, 
A solemn train — the mourners and the dead ! 
While, throned on high, the moon's untroubled ray 
Looks down, as earthly hopes are passing thus 

away. 

XIV. 

But other light is in that holy pile. 
Where, in the house of silence, kings repose ; 
There, through the dim arcade, and pillar'd aisle. 
The funeral-torch its deep-red radiance throws. 
There pall, and canopy, and sacred strain. 
And all around the stamp of woe may bear ; 
But Grief, to whose full heart those forms are vain, 
Grief unexpress'd, unsoothed by them— is there. 
No darker hour hath Fate for him who mourns. 
Than when the all he loved, as dust to dust, re- 
turns. 

XV. 

We mourn — but not thy fate, departed One ! 
We pity — but the living, not the dead ; 
A cloud hangs o'er us — " the bright day is done.'"'' 
And with a father's hopes, a nation's fled. 
And he, the chosen of thy youthful breast, 
Whose soul with thine had mingled every thought, 
He, with thine early, fond affections blest, 
Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught ; 
What but a desert to his eye, that earth. 
Which but retains of thee, the memory of thy 
worth ? 

XVI. 

Oh I there are griefs for nature too intense. 
Whose first rude shock but stupefies the soul; 
Nor hath the fragile and o'erlabour'd sense 
Strength e'en to feel at once their dread control. 
But when 'tis past, that still and speechless hour 
Of the seal'd bosom, and the tearless eye, 
Then the roused mind awakes, with tenfold power. 
To grasp the fullness of its agony ! 
Its death-like torpor vanish'd — and its doom, 
To cast its own dark hues o'er life and nature's 
bloom. 

xvn. 

And such his lot, whom thou hast loved and left, 
Spirit ! thus early to thy home recall'd ! 
So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft, 
A warrior's heart ! by danger ne'er appall'd. 



-Shalispeare. 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



91 



Years may pass on — and, as they roll along, 
Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend ; 
And he once more, with life's unheeding throng, 
May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend; 
Yet still, the guardian-angel of his mind, 
Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory's temple 
shrined. 

XVIII. 

Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal 
Aught from his grief, whose spirit dwells with 

thee ; 
Once deeply bruised, the heart at length may heal, 
But all it was— oh! never more shall be — 
The flower, the leaf, o'erwhelm'd by winter-snow, 
Shall spring again, when beams and sliowers re- 
turn ; 
The faded cheek again with health may glow. 
And the dim eye with life's warm radiance burn ; 
But the pure freshness of the mind's young bloom, 
Once lost, revives alone in worlds beyond the 
tomb. 

XIX. 

But thou— thine hour of agony is o'er. 
And thy brief race in brilliance hath been run, 
While Faith, that bids fond nature grieve no more, 
Tells that thy crown — though not on earth — is 

won. 
Thou, of the world so early left, hast known 
Naught but the bloom and sunshine— and for thee. 
Child of propitious stars ! for thee alone. 
The course of love ran smooth,* and brightly free — 
Not long such bliss to mortal could be given, 
It is enough for earth, to catch one glimpse of 

heaven. 

XX. 

What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame 
Rose in its glory on thine England's eye. 
The grave's deep shadows o'er thy spirit came ? 
Ours is that loss— and thou wert blest to die! 
Thou niight'st have lived to dark and evil years. 
To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o'ercast; 
But thy spring-morn was all undimm'd by tears. 
And thou wert loved and cherish'd to the last ! 
And thy young name, ne'er breathed in ruder tone. 
Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone. 

XXI. 

Daughter of Kings! from that high sphere look 

down, 
Where still in hope, affection's thoughts may rise ; 
Where dimly shines to thee that mortal crown. 
Which earth display'd to claim thee from the skies. 
Look down ! and if thy spirit yet retain 
Memory of aught that once was fondly dear. 
Soothe, though unseen, tne hearts that mourn in 

vain. 
And, in their hours of loneliness — be near! 
Blest was thy lot e'en here — and one faint sigh, 
Oh ! tell those hearts, hath made that bliss eternity ! 



Eixt Sceptic, 

A POEI«E. 



' Leur raieon, qu'ils preanent pour guide, ne presente a leur esprit 
que des conjectures et des embarras j les absurdites ou ils tombent 
en niant la Religion deviennent plus insoutenables que les veritos 
dont la hauteur les etonne ; et pour ne vouloir pas croire des mys- 
teres incomprehensiblts, ils suiveut I'une apres 1 autre d'incom- 
prehensibles erreurs." Bossuet^ Oraisons Funebrcs. 



When the young Eagle, with exulting eye. 
Has learn'd to dare the splendour of the sky. 
And leave the Alps beneath him in his course. 
To bathe his crest in morn's empyreal source, 

*" The course of true love never did run smooth." Shahspea 



Will his free wing, from that majestic height, 
Descend to follow some wild meteor's light. 
Which far below, with evanescent fire. 
Shines to delude, and dazzles to expire ? 

No ! still through clouds he wins his upward way, 
And proudly claims his heritage of day ! 
— And shall the spirit on whose ardent gaze 
The day-spring from on high hath pour'd its blaze, 
Turn from that pure effulgence, to the beam 
Of earth-born light, that sheds a treacherous 

gleam. 
Luring the wanderer from a star of faith, 
To the deep valley of the shades of death? 
What bright exchange, what treasure shall be 

given, 
For the high birth-right of its hope in Heaven? 
If lost the gem which empires could not buy, 
What yet remains ?— a dark eternity ! 

Is earth still Eden ! — might a seraph guest. 
Still, 'midst its chosen bowers, delighted rest? 
Is all so cloudless and so calm below. 
We seek no fairer scenes than life can show ? 
That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate. 
Rejects the promise of a brighter state. 
And leaves the rock, no tempest shall displace. 
To rear his dwelling on the quicksand's base? 

Votary of doubt ! then join the festal throng, 
Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song. 
Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high, 
And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die ! 
'Tis well, thine eye is yet undimm'd by time, 
And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime; 
Smile then unmoved at Wisdom's warning voice. 
And, in the glory of thy strength, rejoice I 

But life hath sterner tasks ; e'en youth's brief 

hours 
Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers; 
The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil. 
Are few and distant on the desert soil ; 
The soul's pure flame the breath of storms must fan. 
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling — Man ! 
Earth's noblest sons the bitter cup have shared — 
Proud child of reason, how art thou prepared? 
When years, with silent might, thy frame have 

bow'd. 
And o'er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud, 
Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain. 
With the bright images of pleasure's train? 
Yes ! as the sight of some far distant shore, 
Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread no 

more. 
Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave 
Drawn, vainlystruggling. to th' unfathom'd grave! 
Shall Hope, the faithfulcherub, hear thy call. 
She, who like heaven's own sunbeam, smiles for 

all? 
Will she speak comfort ?— Thou hast shorn her 

plume. 
That might have raised thee far above the tomb. 
And hush'd the only voice whose angel tone 
Soothes vi'hen all melodies of joy are flown ! 

For she was born beyond tlie stars to soar, 
And kindling at the source of life, adore ; 
Thou couldst not, mortal ! rivet to the earth 
Her eye, whose beam is of celestial birth; 
She dwells with those who leave her pinion free. 
And sheds the dews of heav'n on all but thee. 

Yet few there are, so lonely, so bereft. 
But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left. 
And, haply, one whose strong aflfection's power 
Unchanged may triumph through misfortune's hour. 
Still with fond care supports thy languid head. 
And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed. 

But thou ! whose thoughts have no blest home 
above. 
Captive of earth ! and canst thou dare to love? 
To nurse such feelings as delight to rest, 
Within that hallow'd shrine — a parent's breast. 
To fix each hope, concentrate every tie. 
On one frail idol,— destined but to die. 



\f2 



HEMANS" EARLIER POEMS. 



Yet mock the faitli that points to worlds of light, 
Where sever'd souls, made perfect, reunite ? 
Then tremble ! cling to every passing joy. 
Twined with the life a moment may destroy I 
If there be sorrow in a parting tear. 
Still let "/or ever'' vibrate oil thine ear! 
If some bright hour on rapture's wing hath flown, 
Find more than anguish in the thought — 't is gone ! 
Go! to a voice such magic influence give, 
Thou canst not lose its melody, and live ; 
And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul. 
And let a glance the springs of thought control ; 
Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight, 
Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight ; 
There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust, 
Lean on the willow, idolize the dust I 
Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care. 
Think on that dread ''for ewer"— and despair ! 

And oh! no strange, unwonted storm there 
needs. 
To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds. 
Watch well its course— explore with anxious eye 
Each little cloud that floats along tiie sky- 
Is the blue canopy serenely fair? 
Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there. 
And the bark sink, when peace and sunshine 

sleep 
On the smooth bosom of the waveless deep! 
Yes! ere a sound, a sign, announce thy fate. 
May the blow fall which makes thee desolate ! 
Not always Heaven's destroying angel shrouds 
His awful form in tempests and in clouds ; 
He fills the summer-air with latent power. 
He hides his venom in the scented flower. 
He steals upon thee, in the Zephyr's breath. 
And festal garlands veil the shafts of death ! 

Where art thou then, who thus didst rashly cast 
Thine all upon the mercy of the blast. 
And vainly hope the tree of life to find 
Rooted in sands that flit before the wind ? 
Is not that earth thy spirit loved so well. 
It wish'd not in a brighter sphere to dwell. 
Become a desert now, a veil of gloom, 
O'ershadow'd with the midnight of the tomb? 
Where shalt thou turn ?— it is not thine to raise 
To yon pure heaven thy calm confiding gaze. 
No gleam reflected from that realm of rest 
Stealson the darkness of thy troubled breast, 
Not for thine eye shall faith divinely shed 
Her glory round the image of the dead; 
And'if when slumber's lonely couch is prest, 
The form departed be thy spirit's guest. 
It bears no light from purer worlds to this ; 
The future lends not e'en a dream of bliss. 

But who shall dare the Gate of Life to close, 
Or say, thus far the stream of mercy flows ? 
That fount unseal'd, whose boundless waves em- 
brace 
Each distant isle, and visit every race, 
Pours from the Throne of God its current free. 
Nor yet denies tli' immortal draught to thee. 
Oh ! while the doom impends, nor yet decreed. 
While yet th' Atoner hath not ceased to plead. 
While still, suspended by a single hair. 
The sharp bright sword hangs quivering in the air. 
Bow down thy heart to Him, who will not break 
The bruised reed ; e'en yet, awake, awake ! 
Patient, because Eternal, (1) He may hear 
Thy prayer of agony with pitying ear. 
And send his chastening spirit from above. 
O'er the deep chaos of thy soul to move. 

But seek thou mercy through His name alone, 
To whose unequall'd sorrows none was shown. 
Through Him, who here in mortal garb abode, 
As man to suffer, and to heal as God ! 
And, born the sons of utmost time to bless. 
Endured all scorn, and aided all distress. 

Call thou on Him— for He, in human form. 
Hath walk'd the waves of Life, and still'd the 

storm. 
He, when her hour of lingering grace was past, 
O'er Salem wept, relenting to the last, 



Wept with such tears as Judah's monarch pour'd 
O'er his lost child, ungrateful, yet deplored ; 
And, oft'ering guiltless blood that guilt might live, 
Taught from his Cross the lesson — to forgive ! 

Call thou on Him — his prayer e'en then arose, 
Breathed in unpitied anguish, for his foes. 
And haste !— ere bursts the lightning from on high, 
Fly to the City of thy refuge, fly I (2) 
So shall the Avenger turn his steps away. 
And sheathe his falchion, baffled of its prey. 

Yet must long days roll on, ere peace shall brood. 
As the soft Halcyon, o'er thy heart subdued ; 
Ere yet the dove of Heaven descend, to shed 
Inspiring influence o'er thy fallen head. 
— He who hath pined in dungeons, 'midst the shade 
Of such deep night as man for man hath made. 
Through lingering years ; if call'd at length to be 
Once more, by nature's boundless charter, free. 
Shrinks feebly back, the blaze of noon to shun. 
Fainting at day, and blasted by the sun! 
Thus, when the captive soul hath long remain'd 
In its own dread abyss of darkness chain'd, 
If the Deliverer, in his might at last, 
Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast. 
The beam of truth o'erpowers its dazzled sight. 
Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light. 
But this will pass away — that spark of mind, 
Within thy frame unquenchably enshrined. 
Shall live to triumph in its brightening ray. 
Born to be foster'd with ethereal day. 
Then wilt thou bless the hour, when o'er thee 

pass'd. 
On wing of flame, the purifying blast, 
And sorrow's voice, through paths before uiitrod, 
Like Sinai's trumpet, call'd thee to thy God! 

But hop'st thou, in thy panoply of pride, 
Heaven's messenger, affliction, to deride ? 
In thine own strength unaided to defy. 
With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky ? 
Torn by the vulture, fetter'd to the rock. 
Still, Demigod ! the tempest wilt thou mock ? 
Alas I the tower that crests the mountain's brow 
A thousand years may awe the vale below, 
Yet not the less be shatter'd on its height. 
By one dread moment of the earthquake's might ! 
A thousand pangs thy bosom may have borne, 
In silent fortitude, or haughty scorn. 
Till comes the one, the master-anguish, sent 
To break the mighty heart that ne'er was bent. 

Oh! what is nature's strength ? the vacant eye, 
By mind deserted, hath a dread reply ! 
The wild delirious laughter of despair, 
The mirth of frenzy — seek an answer there ! 
Turn not away, though pity's cheek grow pale, 
Close not thine ear against their awful tale. 
They tell thee, reason, wandering from the ray 
Of Faith, the blazing pillar of her way. 
In the mid-darkness of the stormy wave. 
Forsook the struggling soul she could not save ! 
Weep not, sad moralist ! o'er desert plains, 
Strew'd with the wrecks of grandeur— mouldering 

fanes. 
Arches of triumph, long with weeds o'ergrown. 
And regal cities, now the serpent's own ; 
Earth has more awful ruins— one lost mind. 
Whose star is quench'd, hath lessons for mankind. 
Of deeper import than each prostrate dome, 
Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome. 

But who with eye unshrinking shall explore 
That waste, illumed by reason's beam no more ? 
Who pierce the deep, mysterious clouds that roll 
Around the shatter'd temple of the soul, 
Curtain'd with midnight? — low its columns lie, 
And dark the chambers of its imag'ry, (3) 
Sunk are its idols now— and God alone 
May rear the fabric by their fall o'erthrown ! 
Yet from its inmost shrine, by storms laid bare. 
Is heard an oracle that cries — " Beware ! 
Child of the dust ! but ransom'd of the skies ! 
One breath of Heaven — and thus thy glory dies ! 
Haste, ere the hour of doom, draw nigh to Him 
Who dwells above between the cherubim !" 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



93 



Spirit dethroned ! and check'd in mid career, 
Sou of the morning! exiled from thy sphere, 
Tell us thy tale ! — Perchance thy race was run 
With science, in the chariot of the sun ; 
Free as the winds the paths of space to sweep. 
Traverse the untrodden kingdoms of the deep. 
And search the laws that Nature's springs control, 
There tracing all— save Him who guides the whole. 

Haply thine eye its ardent glance had cast 
Through the dirri shades, the portals of the past ; 
By the bright lamp of thought thy care had fed 
From the far beacon-lights of ages fled. 
The depth of time exploring, to retrace 
The glorious march of many a vanish'd race. 

Or did thy power pervade the living lyre, 
Till its deep chords became instinct with fire, 
Silenced all meaner notes, and swell'd on high, 
Full and alone, their mighty harmony. 
While woke each passion from its cell profound, 
And nations started at th' electric sound ? 

Lord of th' Ascendant ! what avails it now, 
Though bright the laurels waved upon thy brow 7 
What, though thy name, through distant empires 

heard. 
Bade the heart bound as doth a battle-word? 
Was it for this thy still unwearied eye 
Kept vigil with the watch-fires of the sky, 
To make the secrets of all ages thine. 
And commune with majestic thoughts that shine 
O'er Time's long shadowy pathway ? — hath tliy 

mind 
Sever'd its lone dominions from mankind, 
For this to woo their homage ? — Thou hast sought 
All, save the wisdom with salvation fraught. 
Won every wreath — but that which will not die, 
Nor aught neglected — save eternity ! 

And did all fail thee, in the hour of wrath. 
When burst th' o'erwhelming vials on thy path? 
Could not the voice of Fame inspire thee then, 
O spirit ! sceptred by the sons of men. 
With an Immortal's courage to sustain 
The transient agonies of earthly pain ? 

— One, one there was, all-powerful to have saved, 
When the loud fury of the billow raved ; 
But Him thou knew'st not— and the light he lent 
Hath vanish'd from its ruin'd tenement, 
But left thee breathing, moving, lingering yet, 
A thing we shrink from — vainly to forget ; 
Lift the dread veil no further — hide, oh ! hide 
The bleeding form, the couch of suicide ! 
The dagger grasp'd in death — the brow, the eye, 
Lifeless, yet stamp'd with rage and agony ; 
The soul's dark traces left in many a line 
Graved on his mien, who died, — " and made no 

sign!" 
Approach not, gaze not — lest thy fever'd brain 
Too deep that image of despair retain ; 
Angels of slumber ! o'er the midnight hour. 
Let not such visions claim unhallow'd power. 
Lest the mind sink with terror, and above 
See but th' Avenger's arm, forgot th' Atoner's love ! 

OThou! th' unseen, th' all-seeing! — Thou whose 

ways 
Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze. 
Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand, 
Seraph and man, alike in weakness stand, 
And countless ages, trampling ioto clay 
Earth's empires on their march, are but a day ; 
Father of worlds unknown, unnumber'd— Thou, 
With whom all time is one eternal 7iov>, 
Who know'st no past, nor future — Thou whose 

breath 
Goes forth, and bears to myriads, life or death ! 
Look on us, guide us! — wanderers of a sea 
Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee ! 
A thousand rocks, deep-hid, elude our sight, 
A star may set — and we are lost in night ; 
A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool's brink, 
A treach'rous song allure us— and we sink ! 



Oh ! by His love, who, veiling Godhead's light, 
To moments circumscribed the Infinite, 
And Heaven and Earth disdain'dnot to ally 
By that dread union— Man with Deity ; 
Immortal tears o'er mortal woes who shed, 
And, ere he raised them, wept above the dead ; 
Save, or we perish !— let Thy word control 
The earthquakes of that universe— the soul ; 
Pervade the depths of passion— speak once more 
The mighty mandate, guard of every shore, 
^' Here shall thy waves be stay'd"— in grief, in pain. 
The fearful poise of reason's sphere maintain. 
Thou, by whom suns are balanced !— thus secure 
In Thee shall Faith and Fortitude endure ; 
Conscious of Thee, unfaltering shall the just 
Look upward still, in high and holy trust, 
And, by atHiction guided to Thy shrine, 
The first, last thought of suflering hearts be Thine. 

And oh! be near, when clothed with conquering 
power. 
The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour : 
When on the edge of that unknown abyss. 
Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss. 
Awe-struck alike the timid and the brave. 
Alike subdued the monarch and the slave, 
Must drink the cup of trembling (4)— when we see 
Naught in the universe but death and Thee, 
Forsake us not;— if still, when life was young. 
Faith to Thy bosom, as her home, hnth sprung. 
If Hope's retreat hath been, through all the past, 
The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast. 
Father, forsake us not !— when tortures urge 
The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge, 
When from Thy justice to Thy love we fly. 
On Nature's conflict look with pitying eye. 
Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake cease. 
Come in the still small voice, and whisper- 
peace ! (5) 

For oh ! 't is awful— He that hath beheld 
The parting spirit, by its fears repell'd. 
Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain, 
And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain ; 
He that hath seen the last convulsive throe 
Dissolve the union form'd and closed in woe. 
Well knows, that hour is awful. — In the pride 
Of youth and health, by sufi'erings yet untried. 
We talk of Death, as something, which 'twere 

sweet 
In Glory's arms exultingly to meet, 
A closing triumph, a majestic scene. 
Where gazing nations watch the hero's mien, 
As, undismay'd amidst the tears of all, 
He folds his mantle, regally to fall ! 

Hush, fond enthusiast !— still, obscure, and lone, 
Yet not less terrible because unknown, 
Is the last hour of thousands— they retire 
From life's throng'd path, unnoticed to expire, 
As the light leaf, vifhose fall to ruin bears 
Some trembling insect's little world of cares 
Descends in silence — while around waves on 
The mighty forest, reckless what is gone ! 
Such is man's doom — and, ere an hour be flown, 
— Start not, thou trifler! — such may be thine own. 

But as life's current in its ebb draws near 
The shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought of fear, 
A thrilling thought, which, haply mock'd before, 
We fain would stifle— but it sleeps no more ! 
There are, who fly its murmurs 'midst the throng. 
That join the masque of revelry and song. 
Yet still Death's image, by its power restored. 
Frowns 'midst the roses of the festal board. 
And, when deep shades o'er earth and ocean brood. 
And the heart owns the might of solitude. 
Is its low whisper heard — a note profound. 
But wild and startling as the trumpet-sound 
That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead repose 
Of some proud city, storm'd by midnight foes ! 

Oh ! vainly reason's scornful voice would prove 
That life hath naught to claim such lingering love, 
And ask, if ore the captive, half unchain'd. 
Clung to the links which yet his step restrain'd. 



94 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



In vain philosophy, with tranquil pride, 
Would mock the feelings she perchance can hide. 
Call up the countless armies of the dead, 
Point to the pathway beaten by their tread. 
And say— "What wouldst thou? Shall the fix'd 

decree. 
Made for creation, be reversed for thee?" 
— Poor, feeble aid!— proud Stoic ! ask not why, 
It is enough, that nature shrinks to die ! 
Enough, (Aat horror, which thy words upbraid, 
Is her dread penalty, and must be paid ! 
— Search thy deep wisdom, solve the scarce defined 
And mystic questions of the parting mind, 
Half check'd, half utter'd— tell her, what shall 

burst, 
In whelming grandeur, on her vision first. 
When freed from mortal films?— what viewless 

world 
Shall first receive her wing, but half unfurl'd! 
What awful and unbodied beings guide 
Her timid flight through regions yet untried ? 
Say if at once, her final doom to hear. 
Before her God the trembler must appear. 
Or wait that day of terror, when the sea 
Shall yield its hidden dead, and heaven and earth 

shall flee ? 
Hast thou no answer? — then deride no more 
The thoughts that shrink, yet cease not to explore 
Til' unknown, th' unseen, the future — though the 

heart. 
As at unearthly sounds, before them start. 
Though the frame shudder, and the spirit sigh. 
They have their source in immortality ! 
Whence, then, shall strength, which reason's aid 

denies, 
An equal to the mortal conflict rise? 
When, on the swift pale horse, whose lightning 

pace. 
Where'er we fly, still wins the dreadful race. 
The mighty rider comes— oh ! whence shall aid 
Be drawn, to meet his rushing, undismay'd? 
— Whence, but from thee, Messiah! — thou hast 

drain'd 
The bitter cup, till not the dregs rernain'd ; 
To thee the struggle and the pang were known. 
The mystic horror all became thine own ! 

But did no hand celestial succour bring. 
Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting? 
Came not th' Archangel, in the final hour. 
To arm thee with invulnerable power? 
No, Son of God! upon thy sacred head. 
The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed. 
From man averted — and thy path on high 
Pass'd through the strait of fiercest agony ; 
For thus th' Eternal, with propitious eyes. 
Received the last, th' almighty sacrifice ! 

But wake ! be glad, ye nations ! from the tomb 
Is won the victory, and is fled the gloom ! 
The vale of death in conquest hath been trod, 
Break forth in joy, ye ransom'd ! saith your God ! 
Swell ye the raptures of the song afar. 
And hail with harps your bright and morning star. 

He rose! the everlasting gates of day 
Eeceiv'd the King of Gloiy on his way ! 
The hope, the comforter of those who wept. 
And the first fruits of them, in him that slept. 
He rose, he triumph'd ! he will yet sustain 
Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain. 
Aided by Him, around the martyr's frame 
Wljen fiercely blazed a living shroud of flame. 
Hath the firm soul exulted, and the voice 
Raised the victorious hymn, and cried, " Rejoice!" 
Aided by Him, though none the bed attend. 
Where the lone sufferer dies without a friend. 
He, whom the busy world shall miss no more 
Than morn one dew-drop from her countless store. 
Earth's most neglected child, with trusting heart, 
Call'd to the hope of glory, shall depart ! 

And say, cold Sophist ! if by thee bereft 
Of that high hope, to misery what were left ? 
But for the vision of the days to be. 
But for the Comforter, despised by thee. 
Should we not wither at the Chastener's look. 
Should we not sink beneath our God's rebuke. 



When o'er our heads the desolating blast. 
Fraught v/ith inscrutable decrees, hath pass'd. 
And the stern power who seeks the noblest prey, 
Hath call'd our fairest and our best away? 
Should we not madden, when our eyes behold 
All that we loved in marble stillness cold, 
No more responsive to our smile or sigh, 
Fix'd — frozen — silent— all mortality ? 
But for the promise, all shall yet be vfell, 
Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel. 
Beneath such clouds as darken'd, when the hand 
Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land. 
And thou, just lent thy gladden'd isles to bless, 
Then snatch'd from earth with all thy loveliness, 
With all a nation's blessings on thy head, 
O England's flower ! wert gather'd to the dead ? 
But thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart. 
Faith's lofty lesson didst thyself impart ! 
When fled the hope through all thy pangs which 

smiled, 
When thy young bosom, o'er the lifeless child, 
Yearn'd with vain longing — still thy patient eye, 
To its last light, beam'd holy constancy ! 
Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast, 
Amidst those agonies— thy first and last. 
Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes, 
Breathed not a plaint — and settled in repose ; 
While bovv'd thy royal head to Him, whose power 
Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour. 
Who from the brightest vision of a throne. 
Love, glory, empire claim'd thee for his own. 
And spread such terror o'er the sea-girt coast, 
As blasted Israel, when her ark was lost! 

" It is the will of God !"— yet, yet we hear 
The words that closed thy beautiful career, 
Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode. 
But for that thought—" It is the will of God !" 
Who shall arraign th' Eternal's dark decree. 
If not one murmur then escaped from thee? 
Oh ! still, though vanishing without a trace, 
Thou hast not left one scion of thy race. 
Still may thy memory bloom our vales among, 
Hallow'd by freedom, and enshrined in song! 
Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell. 
Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well. 
E'en as an angel, with presiding care, 
To wake and guard thine own high virtues there. 

For lo! the hour when storm-presaging skies 
Call on the watchers of the land to rise. 
To set the sign of fire on every height, (6) 
And o'er the mountains rear, with patriot might, 
Prepared, if summon'd, in its cause to die. 
The banner of our faith, the Cross of Victory! 

By this hath England conquer'd— field and flood 
Have ovvn'd her sovereignty— alone she stood. 
When chains o'er all the sceptred earth were 

thrown. 
In high and holy singleness, alone, 
But mighty in her God— and shall she now 
Forget "before th' Omnipotent to bow ? 
From the bright fountain of her glory turn. 
Or bid strange fire upon his altars burn ? 
No ! sever'd land, midst rocks and billows rude. 
Throned in thy majesty of solitude. 
Still in the deep asylum of thy breast 
Sliall the pure elements of greatness rest, 
Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers. 
Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers ! 

Still, where thy hamlet-vales, O chosen isle ! 
In the soft beauty of their verdure smile. 
Where yew and elm o'ershade the lowly fanes. 
That giiard the peasant's records and remains. 
May the blest echoes of the Sabbath-bell 
Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell. 
And from each cottage-dwelling of thy glades. 
When starlight glimmers through the deepening 

shades. 
Devotion's voice in choral hymns arise. 
And bear the Land's warm incense to the skies. 

There may the mother, as with anxious joy 
To Heaven her lessons consecrate her boy. 
Teach his young accents still the immortal lays 
Of Zion's bards, in inspiration's days. 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS, 



95 



When Angels, whispering through a cedar's shade, 
Prophetic tones to Judah's harp convey'd ; 
And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes. 
She bids the prayer of infancy arise, 
Tell of his name, who left his tlirone on high, 
Earth's lowliest lot to bear and sanctify, 
His love divine, by keenest anguish tried, 
And fondly say—" My child, for thee He died !" 



NOTES. 

Note 1. 
Patient, because Eternal. 

He is patient, because lie is eternal." St. Augustine, 

Note 2. 
riy to the City of thy Refuge, fly ! 
" Then ye shall appoint you cities, to be cities of refuse for you ; 
that the slayer may iiee thither which killeth any person at ana- 
wares.— And they shall be unto you cities for refuse from the aven- 
ger." Numbers, chap. xxxv. 

Note 3. 

.ind dark the chambers of its imagery. 
*' Every man in the chambers of his imagery." — Ezckiel, chap. viii. 
Note 4. 

Must drink the cup of trembling. 
" Thou hast drunken the dregs of tbe cup of trembling, and wrilng 
them out." Isaiah, chap. li. 

Note 5. 

Come in the still small voice, and whisper — peace. 
" And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind 
rent the mountains, and bralie in pieces the rocks before the Lord ; 
but the Lord was not in the wind : and after the wind, an earth- 
quake ; but the Lord was not in the earthquake : and after the 
earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in (he fire : and after the 
fire a still small voice." 1 Kings, chap. xix. 

Note 6. 

To set the sign of fire on every height. 
" And set up a sign of fire." Jeremiah, chap. vi. 



STANZAS 

TO THE 
MEMORY OP THE LATE KING. 



"Among many nations there was no king like him." — Nehemiah. 
" Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this 
Jay in Israel ?" Samuel. 



Another warning sound ! the funeral bell. 

Startling the cities of the isle once more, 
IVith measured tones of melancholy swell. 

Strike on th' awaken'd heart from shore to shore. 
He, at whose coming monarchs sink to dust. 

The chambers of our palaces hath trod, 
\nd the long-suffering spirit of the just, 

Pure from its ruins, hath return'd to God ! 
STet may not England o'er her Father weep, 
Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and too 
deep. 

I'^ain voice of Reason, hush! — they yet must flow, 

The unrestrain'd, involuntary tears: 
1 thousand feelings sanctify the woe. 

Roused by the glorious shades of vanish'd years. 
Tell us no more 'tis not the time for grief. 

Now that the exile of the soul is past, 
\.nd Death, blest messenger of Heaven's relief. 

Hath borne the wanderer to his rest at last ; 
''or him. Eternity hath tenfold day, 
Ne feel, we know, 'tis thus — yet Nature will 
have way. 

/Vhat though amidst us, like a blasted oak. 

Saddening the scene where once it nobly reign'd, 
V dread memorial of the lightning-stroke, 

Stamp'd with its fiery record, he remain'd ; 
Vround that shatter'd tree still fondly clung 

Th' undying tendrils of our love, which drew 
'■"resh nurture from its deep decay, and sprung 

Luxuriant thence, to Glory's ruin true : 



While England hung her trophies on the stem. 
That desolately stood, unconscious e'en of them. 

Of them unconscious! Oh mysterious doom ! 

Who shall unfold the counsels of the skies! 
His was the voice, which roused, as from the 
tomb 

The realm's high soul to loftiest energies! 
His was the spirit, o'er the isles which threw 

The mantle of its fortitude ; and wrought 
In every bosom, powerful to renew 

Each dying spark of pure and generous thought 
The star of tempest beaming on the mast,* 
The seamen's torch of Hope, 'midst perils deepen- 
ing fast. 

Then from th' unslumbering influence of his worth. 

Strength as of inspiration, fill'd the land ; 
A young, but quenchless, flame went brightly forth. 

Kindled by him — who saw it not expand! 
Such was the will of Heaven,— the gifted seer. 

Who with his God had communed, face to face. 
And from the house of bondage, and of fear. 

In faith victorious, led the chosen race ; 
He, through the desert and the waste their guide. 
Saw dimly from afar the promised land— and died. 

O full of days and virtues ! on thy head 

Centred the woes of many a bitter lot; 
Fathers have sorrow'd o'er their beauteous dead, 
Eyes, quench'd in night, the sun-beams have for- 
got ; 
Minds have striven buoyantly with evil years, 
And sunk beneath their glittering weight at 
length ; 
But Pain for thee had fill'd a cup of tears. 

Where every anguish mingled all its strength; 
By thy lost child we saw thee weeping stand. 
And shadows deep around fell from the Eternal's 
hand. 

Then came the noon of glory, which thy dreams. 

Perchance of yore, had faintly prophesied ; 
But what to thee the splendour of its beams? 
The ice-rock glows not 'midst the summer's 
pride ! 
Nations leap'd up to joy— as streams that burst, 

At the warm touch of spring, their frozen chain ; 
And o'er the plains, whose verdure once they 
nursed, 
Roll in exulting melody again ; 
And bright o'er earth the long majestic line 
Of England's triumphs swept, to rouse all hearts 
— but thine. 

Oh I what a dazzling vision, by the veil 

That o'er thy spirit hung, was shut from thee, 
When sceptred chieftains throng'd, with palms, to 
hail 

The crowning isle, the anointed of the sea ! 
Within thy palaces the lords of earth 

Met to rejoice,— rich pageants glitter'd by, 
And stately revels imaged, in their mirth, 

The old magnificence of chivalry. 
They reach'd not thee, — amidst them, yet alone 
Stillness and gloom begirt one dim and shadowy 
throne. 

Yet was there mercy still— if joy no more 

Within that blasted circle might intrude. 
Earth had no grief whose footstep might pass o'er 

The silent limits of its solitude ! 
If all unheard the bridal song awoke 

Our hearts' full echoes, as it swell'd on high ; 
Alike unheard the sudden dirge, that broke 

On the glad strain, with dread solemnity ! 
If the land's rose unheeded wore its bloom. 
Alike unfelt the storm, that swept it to the tomb. 

And she, who, tried through all the stormy past, 
Severely, deeply proved, in many an hour, 

Watch'd o'er thee, firm and faithful to the last, 
Sustain'd, inspired, by strong affection's power ; 



*The flittering meteor, like a star, which often appears about a 
ship during tempests, if seen upon the mainmast, is considered by 
the sailors as an omen of good weather. See Sampier^s Foyages . 



96 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



If to thy soul her voice no music bore, 

If thy closed eye, and wandering spirit caught 
No light from looks, that fondly would explore 
Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought ; 
Oh! thou wert spared the pang that would have 

thrill'd 
Thine inmost heart, when Death that anxious 
bosom still'd. 

Thy loved ones fell around thee— manhood's prime 

Youth, with its glory, in its fullness. Age, 
All at the gates of their eternal clime 

Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrimage 
The land wore ashes for its perish'd flowers, 

The grave's imperial harvest. Thou, meanwhile 
Didst walk unconscious through thy royal towers. 

The one that wept not in the tearful isle ! 
As a tired warrior, on his battle-plain. 
Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners and 
the slain. 

And who can tell what visions might be thine ? 
The stream of thought, though broken, still was 
pure 1 
Still o'er that wave the stars of heaven might 
shine. 
Where earthly image would no more endure! 
Though many a step, of once familiar sound, 

Came as a stranger's o'er thy closing ear. 
And voices breathed forgotten tones around. 

Which that paternal heart once thrill'd to hear. 
The mind hath senses of its own, and powers 
To people boundless worlds, in its most wander- 
ing hours. 

Nor might the phantoms to thy spirit known 

Be dark or wild, creations of remorse ; 
Unstain'd by thee, the blameless past had thrown 

No fearful shadows o'er the future's course ; 
For thee no cloud, from memory's dread abyss, 

Might shape such forms as haunt the tyrant's 
eye ; 
And closing up each avenue of bliss. 

Murmur their summons, to " despair and die!" 
No! e'en though joy depart, though reason cease. 
Still virtue's ruin'd home is redolent of peace. 

They might be with thee still— the loved, the tried. 

The fair, the lost— they might be with thee still ! 
More softly seen, in radiance purified 

Prom each dim vapour of terrestrial ill; 
Long after earth received them, and the note 

Of the last requiem o'er their dust was pour'd, 
As passing sunbeams o'er thy soul might float 

Those forms, from us withdrawn— to thee re- 
stored ! 
Spirits of holiness, in light reveal'd. 
To commune with a mind whose source of tears 
was seal'd. 

Came they with tidings from the worlds above. 

Those viewless regions, where the weary rest ? 
Sever'd from earth, estranged from mortal love. 

Was thy mysterious converse with the blest ? 
Or shone their visionary presence bright 

With human beauty ?— did their smiles renew 
Those days of sacred and serene delight. 

When fairest beings in thy pathway grew? 
Oh ! Heaven hath balm for every wound it makes. 
Healing the broken heart; it smites— but ne'er 
forsakes. 

These may be phantasies— and this alone. 
Of all we picture in our dreams, is sure ; 

That rest, made perfect, is at length thine own. 
Rest, in thy God immortally secure! 

Enough for tranquil faith ; released from all 
The woes that graved Heaven's lessons on thy 
brow, 



No cloud to dim, no fetter to enthral, 

Haply thine eye is on thy people now; 
Whose love around thee still itsofieriugs shed. 
Though vainly sweet as flowers, griefs tribute to 
the dead. 

But if th' ascending, disembodied mind, 

Borne on the wings of Morning, to the skies, 
May cast one glance of tenderness behind. 

On scenes, once hallow'd by its mortal ties. 
How much hast thou to gaze on I all that lay 

By the dark mantle of thy soul conceal'd, 
The might, the majesty, the proud array 

Of England's march o'er many a noble field, 
All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light. 
Shine like some glorious land, view'd from an Al- 
pine-height. 

Away, presumptuous thought !— departed saint! 

To thy freed vision what can earth display 
Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint. 

Seen from the birth-place of celestial day? 
Oh ! pale and weak the sun's reflected rays, 

E'en in their fervour of meridian heat. 
To him, who in the sanctuary may gaze 

On the bright cloud that fills the mercy-seat ! 
And thou mayest view, from thy divine abode. 
The dust of empires flit, before a breath of God. 

And yet we mourn thee ! yes I thy place is void 
Within our hearts— there veil'd thine image 
dwelt, 
But cherish'd still ; and o'er that tie destroy'd. 
Though Faith rejoice, fond Nature still must 
melt. 
Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway. 

Thousands were born, who now in dust repose. 
And many a head, with years and sorrows gray. 

Wore youth's bright tresses, when thy star arose ; 
And many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn. 
Hath flll'd our sphere with light, now to its source 
withdrawn. 

Earthquakes have rock'd the nations : — things re- 
vered, 

Th' ancestral fabrics of the world, went down 
In ruins, from whose stones Ambition rear'd 

His lonely pyramid of dread renown. 
But when the fires, that long had slumber'd, pent 

Deep in men's bosoms, with volcanic force. 
Bursting their prison-house, each bulwark rent. 

And swept each holy barrier from their course, 
Firm and unmoved, amidst that lava-flood, 
Still, by thine arm upheld, our ancient landmarks 
stood. 

Be they eternal !— Be thy children found 

Still, to their country's altars, true like thee ; 
And, while " the name of Briton" is a sound 

Of rallying music to the brave and free, 
With the high feelings at the word which swell. 

To make the breast a shrine for Freedom's flame. 
Be mingled thoughts of him, who loved so well. 

Who left so pure, its heritage of fame ! 
Let earth with trophies guard the conqueror's dust. 
Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the 
just. 

All else shall pass away — the thrones of kings, 

The very traces of their tombs depart ; 
But number not with perishable things 

The holy records Virtue leaves the heart. 
Heir-looms from race to race !— and oh ! in days. 

When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest. 
When our sons learn, " as household words," thy 
praise. 

Still on thine ofl^spring may thy spirit rest ! 
And many a name of that imperial line. 
Father and patriot! blend, in England's songs, 
with thine ! 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



97 



^otrcrit Greece. 

A POEM. 



Greece ! thou sapient nurse of finer arts, 
Wllich to bright Science blooming Fancy bore, 
Be this thy praise, that thou, and thou alone, 
In these hast led the way, in these excell'd, 
Crown'd with the laurel of assenting Time. 

Thomson's Liberty. 



I. 

Oh! who hath trod thy consecrated clime, 
Fair land of Phidias! theme of lofty strains ! 
And traced each scene, that 'midst the wrecks 

of time. 
The print of Glory's parting step retains ; 
Nor for awhile, in high- wrought dreams, forgot, 
Musing on years gone by in brightness there. 
The hopes, the fears, the sorrows of his lot, 
The hues his fate hath worn, or yet may wear ; 
As when from mountain-heights his ardent eye 
Of sea and heaven hath track'd the blue infinity ? 

II. 

Is there who views with cold, unalter'd mien. 
His frozen heart with proud indifference fraught. 
Each sacred haunt, each un forgotten scene, 
Where Freedom triumph'd, or where Wisdom 

taught ? 
Souls that too deeply feel, oh, envy not 
The sullen calm your fate hath never known ; 
Through the dull twilight of that wintry lot 
Genius ne'er pierced, nor Fancy's sunbeam 
shone, 
Nor those high thoughts, that, hailing Glory's trace. 
Glow with the generous flames of every age and 
race. 

III. 

But blest the wanderer, whose enthusiast mind 
Each muse of ancient days hath deep imbued 
With lofty lore ! and all his thoughts refined 
In the calm school of silent solitude ; 
Pour'd on his ear, 'midst groves and glens retired. 
The mighty strains of each illustrious clime. 
All that hath lived, while empires have expired. 
To float for ever on the winds of Time ; 
And on his soul indelibly portray'd 
Fair visionary forms, to fill each classic shade. 

IV. 

Is not his mind, to meaner thoughts unknown, 
A sanctuary of beauty and of light ? 
There he may dwell, in regions all his own, 
A world of dreams, where all is pure and bright. 
For him the scenes of old renown possess 
Romantic charms, all veii'd from other eyes! 
There every form of nature's loveliness 
Wakes in his breast a thousand sympathies ; 
As music's voice, in some lone mountain-dell. 
From rocks andcaves around calls forth each echo's 
swell. 



For him Italia's brilliant skies illume 
The bard's lone haunts, the warrior's combat- 
plains. 
And the wild-rose yet lives to breathe and bloom, 
Round Doric Psestum's solitary fanes. (1) 
But most, fair Greece ! on thy majestic shore 
He feels the fervours of his spirit rise ; 
Thou birth-place of the Muse ! whose voice, of 

yore, 
Breathed in thy groves immortal harmonies ; 
And lingers still around the well-known coast. 
Murmuring a wild farewell to fame and freedom 
lost. 

VI. 
By seas, that flow in brightness as they lave 
Thy rocks, th' enthusiast, rapt in thought, may 
stray, 

13 



While roves his eye o'er that deserted wave. 
Once the proud scene of battle's dread array. 
— O ye blue waters ! ye of old that bore 
The free, the conquering, hymn'd by choral 

strains. 
How sleep ye now around the silent shore. 
The lonely realm of ruins and of chains ! 
How are the mighty vanish'd in their pride ! 
E'en as their barks have left no traces on your 

tide. 

VII. 

Hush'd are the Poaans whose exulting tone 
Swell'd o'er that tide (2)— the sons of battle 

sleep — 
The winds wild sigh, the halcyon's voice, alone 
Blend with the plaintive murmurs of the deep. 
Yet when those waves have caught the splendid 

hues 
Of morn's rich firmament, serenely bright, 
Or setting suns the lovely shores suffuse 
With all their purple mellowness of light. 
Oh ! who could view the scene, so calmly fair. 
Nor dream that peace, and joy, and liberty were 

there? 

VIII. 

Where soft the sunbeams play, the zephyrs blow, 
'T is hard to deem that misery can be nigh ; 
Where the clear lieavens in blue transparence 

glow. 
Life should be calm and cloudless as the sky : 
—Yet o'er the low, dark dwellings of the dead 
Verdure and flowers in summer-bloom may smile, 
And ivy-boughs their graceful drapery spread 
In green luxuriance o'er the ruin'd pile ; 
And mantling woodbine veils the wither'd tree, — 
And thus it is, fair land, forsaken Greece! with 

thee. 

IX. 

For all the loveliness, and light, and bloom. 
That yet are thine, surviving many a storm. 
Are but as heaven's warm radiance on the tomb, 
The rose's blush that masks the canker-worm: — 
And thou art desolate — thy morn hath pass'd 
So dazzling in the splendour of its way. 
That the dark shades the night hath o'er thee 

cast 
Throw tenfold gloom around thy deep decay. 
Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fair. 
Thy fate hath been unmatch'd— in glory and des- 
pair. 



For thee, lost land ! the hero's blood hath flow'd, 
The high in soul have brightly lived and died; 
For thee the light of soaring genius glow'd 
O'er the fair arts it form'd and glorified. 
Thine were the minds, whose energies sublime 
So distanced ages in their lightning-race, 
The task they left the sons of later time 
Was but to follow their illumined trace. 
— Now, bovv'd to earth, thy children, to be free, 
Must break each link that binds their filial hearts 
to thee. 

XI. 

Lo ! to the scenes of fiction's wildest tales. 
Her own bright East, thy son, Morea ! flies, (3) 
To seek repose 'midst rich, romantic vales. 
Whose incense mounts to Asia's vivid skies. 
There shall he rest? — Alas! his hopes in vain 
Guide to the sun-clad regions of the palm. 
Peace dwells not now on oriental plain. 
Though earth is fruitfulness, and air is balm ; 
And the sad wanderer finds but lawless foes. 
Where patriarchs reign'd of old in pastoral repose. 

XII. 

Where Syria's mountains rise, or Yemen's 

groves, 
Or Tigris rolls his genii-haunted wave, 
Life to his eye, as wearily it roves. 
Wears but two forms— the tyrant and the slave ! 



98 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



There the fierce Arab leads his daring horde, 
Where sweeps the sand-storm o'er the burning 

wild, 
There stern Oppression waves the wasting 

sword. 
O'er plains that smile, as ancient Eden smiled; 
And the vale's bosom, and the desert's gloom, 
Yield to the injured there no shelter save the tomb. 

XIII. 

But thou, fair world! whose fresh, unsullied 

charms 
Welcomed Columbus from the western wave. 
Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms, (4) 
The lost descendant of the immortal brave? 
Amidst the wild magnificence of shades 
That o'er thy floods their twilight-grandeur cast. 
In the green depth of thine untrodden glades. 
Shall he not rear his bower of peace at last ? 
Yes! thou hast many a lone, majestic scene. 
Shrined in primeval woods, where despot ne'er 
hath been. 

XIV. 

There, by some lake, whose blue, expansive 

breast 
Bright from afar, an inland-ocean, gleams, 
Girt with vast solitudes, profusely dress' d 
In tints like those that float o'er poet's dreams ; 
Or where some flood from pine-clad mountain 

pours 
Its might of waters, glittering in their foam, 
'Midst the rich verdure of its wooded shores. 
The exiled Greek hath fi.x'd his sylvan home : 
So deeply lone, that round the wild retreat 
Scarce have the paths been trod by Indian hunts- 
man's feet. 

XV. 

The forests are around him in their pride. 
The green savannas, and the mighty waves ; 
And isles of flowers, bright-floating o'er the 

tide, (5) 
That images the fairy worlds it laves. 
And stillness, and luxuriance— o'er his head 
The ancient cedars wave their peopled bowers. 
On high the palms their graceful foliage spread, 
Cinctured with roses the magnolia towers. 
And from those green arcades a thousand tones 
Wake with each breeze, whose voice through Na- 
ture's temple moans. 

XVI. 
And there, no traces left by brighter days, 
For glory lost may wake a sigh of grief, 
Some grassy mound perchance may meet his 

gaze. 
The lone memorial of an Indian chief 
There man not yet hath mark'd the boundless 

plain 
With marble records of his fame and power; 
The forest is his everlasting fane. 
The palm his monument, the rock his tower. 
Th' eternal torrent, and the giaiit tree. 
Remind him but that they, like him, are wildly 
free. 

XVtI. 

But doth the exile's heart serenely there 
In sunshine dwell?— Ah! when vvas exile blest? 
When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or sum- 
mer-air. 
Chase from his soul the fever of unrest? 
— There is a heart-sick weariness of mood. 
That like slow poison wastes the vital glow. 
And shrines itself in mental solitude. 
An uncomplaining and a nameless woe. 
That coldly smiles 'midst pleasure's brightest ray. 
As the chill glacier's peak reflects the flush of day. 

XVIII. 

Such grief is theirs, who, fix'd on foreign shore, 
Sigh for the spirit of their native gales. 
As pines the seaman, 'midst the ocean's roar. 
For the green earth, with all its woods and vales. 



Thus feels thy child, whose memory dwells with 

thee. 
Loved Greece ! all sunk and blighted as thou art : 
Though thought and step in western wilds be 

free. 
Yet thine are still the day-dreams of his heart ; 
The deserts spread between, the billows foam. 
Thou, distant and in chains, art yet his spirit's 

liome. 

XIX. 

In vain for him the gay liannes entwine. 
Or the green fire-fly sparkles through the brakes, 
Or summer- winds waft odours from the pine, 
As eve's last blush is dying on the lakes. 
Through thy fair vales his fancy roves the while. 
Or breathes the freshness of Cithteron's height. 
Or dreams how softly Athens' towers would 

smile. 
Or Sunium's ruins, in the fading light ; 
On Corinth's cliffs what sunset hues may sleep, 
Or, at that placid liour, how calm th' Egean deep ; 

XX. 

What scenes, what sunbeams, are to him like 

thine? 
(The all of thine no tyrant could destroy !) 
E'en to the stranger's roving eye they sJiine, 
Soft as a vision of remember'd joy. 
And he who comes, the pilgrim of a day, 
A passing wanderer o'er each Attic hill. 
Sighs as his footsteps turn from thy decay, 
To laughing climes, where all is splendour still, 
And views with fond regret thy lessening shore. 
As he would watch a star that sets to rise no more. 

XXI. 

Realm of sad beauty ! thou art as a shrine 
That Fancy visits with Devotion's zeal. 
To catch high thoughts and impulses divine. 
And all the glow of soul enthusiasts feel 
Amidst the tombs of heroes— for the brave 
Whose dust, so many an age, hath been thy soil. 
Foremost in honour's phalanx, died to save 
The land redeem'd and hallow'd by their toil ; 
And there is language in thy lightest gale. 
That o'er the plains they won seems murmuring 
yet their tale. 

xxn. 

And he, whose heart is weary of the strife 
Of meaner spirits, and whose mental gaze 
Would shun the dull, cold littleness of life. 
Awhile to dwell amidst sublimer days. 
Must turn to thee, whose every valley teems 
With proud remembrances that cannot die. 
Thy glens are peopled with inspiring dreams, 
Thy winds, the voice of oracles gone by ; 
And 'midst thy Jaurel shades the wanderer hears 
The soundof mighty names, the hymns of vanish- 
ed years. 

XXIII. 

Through that deep solitude be his to stray, 
By Faun and Oread loved in ages past. 
Where clear Peneus winds his rapid way 
Through the cleft, heights, in antique grandeur 

vast. 
Romantic Tempe ! thou art yet the same — 
Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time : (6) 
Years, that have changed thy river's classic 

name, (7) 
Have left thee still in savage pomp sublime ; 
And from thine Alpine clefts, and marble caves, 
In living lustre still break forth the fountain- waves. 

XXIV. 

Beneath thy mountain battlements and towers. 
Where the rich arbute's coral berries glow, (8) 
Or 'midst th' exuberance of thy forest bowers, 
Casting deep shadows o'er the current's flow. 
Oft shall the pilgrim pause, in lone recess. 
As rock and stream some glancing light have 

caught. 
And gaze, till Nature's mighty forms impress 
His soul with deep sublimity of thought ; 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



99 



And linger oft, recalling many a talc, 
That breeze, and wave, and wood, seem whisper- 
ing through thy dale. 

XXV. 

He, thought-entranced, may wander where of old 
From Delphi's chasm the mystic vapour rose, 
And trembling nationsheard their doom foretold. 
By the dread spirit throned 'midst rocks and 

snows. 
Though its rich fanes be blended with the dust, 
And silence now the hallow'd haunt possess, 
Still is the scene of ancient rites august, 
Magnificent in mountain loneliness; 
Still inspiration hovers o'er the ground, 
Where Greece her councils held, (9) her Pythian 
victors crown'd. 

xxvr. 

Or let his steps the rude, gray cliffs explore 
Of that wild pass, once dyed with Spartan blood. 
When by the waves that break on CEta's shore. 
The few, the fearless, the devoted stood ! 
Or rove where, shadowing Mantinea's plain. 
Bloom the wildlaurels o'er the warlike dead, (10) 
Or lone Platsa's ruins yet remain. 
To mark the battle-field of ages fled; 
Still o'er such scenes presides a sacred power. 
Though Fiction's gods have fled from fountain, 
grot, and bower. 

XXVII. 

Oh ! still unblamed may fancy fondly deem 
That, lingering yet, benignant genii dwell. 
Where mortal worth has hallow'd grove or 

stream. 
To sway the heart with some ennobling spell ; 
For mightiest minds have felt their blest control, 
In the wood's murmur, in the zephyr's sigh. 
And these are dreams that lend a voice and soul. 
And a high power, to Nature's majesty ! 
And who can rove o'er Grecian shores, nor feel, 
Soft o'er his inmost heart, their secret magic steal .' 

XXVIII. 

Yet many a sad reality is there. 

That fancy's bright illusions cannot veil. 

Pure laughs the light, and balmy breathes the 

air, 
But Slavery's mien will tell its bitter tale ; 
And there not Peace, but Desolation, throws 
Delusive quiet o'er full many a scene. 
Deep as the brooding torpor of repose 
That follows where the earthquake's track hath 

been ; 
Or solemn calm, on Ocean's breast that lies, 
When sinks the storm, and death hath hush'd the 

seaman's cries. 

XXIX. 

Hast thou beheld some sovereign spirit, hurl'd 
By Fate's rude tempest from its radiant sphere, 
Doom'd to resign the homage of a world. 
For Pity's deepest sigh, and saddest tear? 
Oh ! hast thou watch'd the awful wreck of mind. 
That weareth still a glory in decay? 
Seen all that dazzles and delights mankind — 
Thought, science, genius, to the storm a prey. 
And o'er the blasted tree, the wither'd ground, 
Despair's wild nightshade spread, and darkly 
flourish round ? 

XXX. 

So may'st thou gaze in sad and awe-struck 

thought. 
On the deep fall of that yet lovely clime : 
Such there the ruin Time and Fate have wrought. 
So changed the bright, the splendid, the sublime ! 
There the proud monuments of Valour's name, 
The mighty works Ambition piled on high. 
The rich remains by Art bequeathed to Fame — 
Grace, beauty, grandeur, strength, and sym- 
metry, 



Blend in decay ; while all that yet is fair 
Seems only spared to tell ho\y much hath perish'd 
tliere ! 

XXXI. 

There, while around lie mingling in the dust. 
The column's graceful shaft with weeds o'er- 

grown, 
The mouldering torso, the forgotten bust, 
The warrior's urn, the altar's mossy stone ; 
Amidst the loneliness of shatter'd fanes, 
Still matchless monuments of other years, 
O'er cypress groves, or solitary plains. 
Its eastern form the minaret proudly rears ; 
As on some captive city's ruin'd wail 
The victor's banner waves, e.xulting o'er its fall. 

XXXII. 

Still, where that column of the mosque aspires. 
Landmark of slavery, towering o'er the waste. 
There science droops, the Muses hush their lyres. 
And o'er the blooms of fancy and of taste 
Spreads the chill blight— as in that orient isle, 
Where the dark 'upas taints the gale around, (II) 
Within its, precincts not a flower may smile, 
Nor dew nor sunshine fertilize the ground ; 
Nor wild bird's music float on zephyr's breath. 
But all is silence round, and solitude, and death. 

XXXIII. 

Far other influence pour'd the Crescent's light. 
O'er conquer'd realms, in ages past away ! 
Full and alone it beain'd, intensely bright, 
While distant climes in midnight darkness lay. 
Then rose th' Alhambra, with its founts and 

shades, 
Fair marble halls, alcoves, and orange bowers; 
Its sculptured lions, (12) richly wrought arcades. 
Aerial pillars, and enchanted towers ; 
Light, splendid, wild as some Arabian tale 
Would picture fairy domes, that fleet before the 
gale. 

" XXXIV. 

Then foster'd genius lent each Caliph's throne 
Lustre barbaric pomp could ne'er attain ; 
And stars unnumber'd o'er the orient shone, 
Bright as that Pleiad, shrined in Mecca's 

fane. (13) 
From Bagdat's palaces, the choral strains 
Rose and re-echoed to the desert's bound. 
And Science, woo'don Egypt's burning plains, 
Eear'd her majestic head with glory crown'd ; 
And the wild Muses breathed romantic lore. 
From Syria's palmy groves to Andalusia's shore. 

XXXV. 

Those years have pass'd in radiance— they have 

pass'd. 
As sinks the day-star in the tropic main ; 
His parting beams no soft reflection cast, 
They burn— are quench'd— and deepest shadows 

reign. 
And Fame and Science have not left a trace. 
In the vast regions of the Moslem's power, — 
Regions, to intellect a desert space, 
A wild without a fountain or a flower. 
Where towers oppression 'midst the deepening 

glooms. 
As dark and lone ascends the cypress 'midst the 

tombs. 

XXXVI. 

Alas for thee, fair Greece ! when Asia pour'd 
Her fierce fanatics to Byzantium's wall. 
When Europe sheathed, in apathy, her sword. 
And heard unmoved the fated city's call. 
No hold crusaders ranged their serried line 
Of spears and banners round a falling throne ; 
And thou, O last and noblest Constantlne ! (14) 
Didst meet the storm unshrinking and alone. 
Oh! blest. to die in freedom, though in vain. 
Thine empire's proud exchange the grave, and 
not the chain. 



100 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



XXXVII. 

Husli'd is Byzantium — 't is the dead of night — 
The closing night of that imperial race! (15) 
And all is vigil — but the eye of light 
Shall soon unfold, a wilder scene to trace ; 
There is a murmuring stillness on the train. 
Thronging the midnight streets, at morn to die ; 
And to the cross in fair Sophia's fane, 
For the last time is raised Devotion's eye ; 
And, in his heart while faith's bright visions rise, 
There kneels the highsoul'd prince, tlae summon'd 
of the skies. 

XXXVIII. 

Day breaks in light and glory — 't is the hour. 
Of conflict and of fate — the war-note calls — 
Despair hath lent astern, delirious power 
To the brave few that guard the rampart walls. 
Far o'er Marmora's waves th' artillery's peal 
Proclaims an empire's doom in every note; 
Tambour and trumpet swell the clash of steel. 
Round spire and dome the clouds of battle float ; 
From camp and wave rush on the crescent's host, 
•And the Seven Towers (16) are scaled, and all is 
won and lost. 

XXXIX. 

Then, Greece ! the tempest rose, that burst on 

thee. 
Land of the bard, the warrior, and the sage! 
Oh! where were then thy sons, the great, the free. 
Whose deeds are guiding stars from age to age ? 
Though firm thy battlements of crags and snows. 
And bright the memory of thy days of pride. 
In mountain-might tho' Corinth's fortress rose, 
On, unresisted, roU'd th' invading tide ! 
Oh! vain the rock, the rampart, and the tower, 
If Freedom guard them not with Mind's uncon- 

quer'd power. • 

XL. 

Where were th' avengers then, whose viewless 

might 
Preserved inviolate their awful fane, (17) 
When through the steep defiles, to Delphi's 

height, 
In martial splendour pour'd the Persian's train? 
Then did those mighty and mysterious Powers, 
Arm'd with the elements, to vengeance wake. 
Call the dread storms to darken round their 

towers. 
Hurl down the rocks, and bid the thunders break ; 
Till far around, with deep and fearful clang. 
Sounds of unearthly war through wild Parnassus 

rang. 

XLI. 

Where was the spirit of the victor-thronar. 
Whose tombs are glorious by Scamander's tide. 
Whose names are bright in everlasting song, 
The lords of war, the praised, the deified? 
Where he, the hero of a thousand lays. 
Who from the dead at Marathon arose (18) 
All arm'd ; and beaming on th' Athenians' gaze, 
A battle-meteor, guided to their foes? 
Or they whose forms, to Alaric's awe-struek 
eye, (19) 
Hovering o'er Athens, blazed, in airy panoply ? 

XLII. 

Ye slept, oh heroes ! chief ones of the earth I (20) 
High demigods of ancient days! ye slept: 
There lived no spark of your ascendant worth. 
When o'er your land the victor Moslem swept; 
No patriot then the sons of freedom led. 
In mountain-pass devotedly to die ; 
The martyr-spirit of resolve was, fled. 
And the high soul's unconquer'd buoyancy; 
And by your graves, and on your battle-plains. 
Warriors! your children knelt to wear the stran- 
ger's chains. 



XLIII. 

Now have your trophies vanish'd, and your homes 
Are moulder'd from the earth, while scarce re- 
main 
E'en the faint traces of the ancient tombs 
That mark where sleep the slayers or the slain. 
Your deeds are with the deeds of glory flown. 
The lyres are hush'd that swell'd your fame afar, 
The halls that echoed to their sounds are gone, 
Perish'd the conquering weapons of your 

war ; (21) 
And if a massy stone your names retain, 
'T is but to tell your sons, for them ye died in vain. 

XLIV. 

Yet, where some lone sepulchral relic stands 
That with those names tradition hallows yet, 
Oft shall the wandering son of other lauds 
Linger in solemn thought and hush'd regret. 
And still have legends mark'd the lonely spot 
Where low the dust of Agamemnon lies ; 
And shades of kings and leaders unforgot. 
Hovering around, to fancy's vision rise. 
Souls of the heroes ! seek your rest again, 
Nor mark how changed the realms that saw your 
glories reign. 

XLV. 

Lo, where th' Albanian spreads his despot sway 
O'er Thessaly's rich vales and glowing plains, 
Whose sous in sullen abjectness obey. 
Nor lift the hand indignant at its chains ; 
Oh! doth the land that gave Achilles birth. 
And many a chief of old, illustrious line. 
Yield not one spirit of unconquer'd worth. 
To kindle those that now in bondage pine ? 
No! on its mountain-air is slavery's breath, 
And terror chills the hearts whose utter'd plaints' 
were death. 

XLVI. 

Yet if thy light, fair Freedom, rested there. 
How rich in charms were that romantic clime, 
With streams, and woods, and pastoral valleys 

fair. 
And wall'd with mountains, haughtily sublime. 
Heights, that might well be deem'd the Muses' 

reign. 
Since, claiming proud alliance with the skies. 
They lose in loftier spheres their wild domain : 
Meet home for those retired divinities 
That love, where naught of earth may e'er in- 
trude. 
Brightly to dwell on high, in lonely sanctitude. 

XLVII. 

There in rude grandeur, daringly ascends 
Stern Pindus, rearing many a pine-clad height: 
He with the clouds his bleak dominion blends. 
Frowning o'er vales, in woodland verdure bright. 
Wild and august in consecrated pride, 
There through the deep- blue heaven Olympus 

towers. 

Girdled with mists, light-floating as to hide 

The rock-built palace of immortal powers ; 

Where far on high the sunbeam finds repose. 

Amidst th' eternal pomp of forests and of snows. 

XLVIII. 

Those savage hills and solitudes might seem 
The chosen haunts where Freedom's foot would 

roam ; 
She loves to dwell by gien and torrent-stream. 
And make the rocky fastnesseis her home. 
And in the rushing of the mountain-flood. 
In the wild eagle's solitary cry. 
In sweeping winds that peal through cave and 

wood. 
There is a voice of stern sublimity. 
That swells her spirit to a loftier mood 
Of solemn joy severe, of power, of fortitude. 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



101 



XLIX. 

But from those hills the radiance of her smile 
Hath vanish'd long, her stop hath fled afar ; 
O'erSiili's frowning rocks she paused awhile,(22) 
Kindling the watch-Ares of the mountain-war; 
And brightly glow'd her ardent spirit there, 
Still brightest^'midst privation : o'er distress 
It cast romantic splendour, and despair 
But fann'd that beacon of the wilderness ; 
And rude ravine, and precipice and dell 
Sent their deep echoes forth, her rallying voice to 
swell. 

L. 

Dark children of the hills ! 't was then ye 

wrought 
Deeds of fierce daring, rudely, sternly grand ; 
As 'midst your craggy citadels ye fought. 
And women mingled with your warrior-band. 
Tlien on the cliif the frantic mother stood [Si) 
High o'er the river's darkly-rolling wave. 
And hurl'd, in dread delirium, to the flood, 
Her free-born infant, ne'er to be a slave. 
For all was lost— all, save the power to die 
The wild, indignant death of savage liberty. 

LI. 

Now is that strife a tale of vanish'd days. 
With mightier things forgotten soon to lie ; 
Yet oft hath minstrel sung, in lofty lays, 
Deeds less adventurous, energies less high. 
And the dread struggle's fearful memory still 
O'er each wild rock a wilder aspect throws ; 
Sheds darker shadows o'er the frowning hill, 
More solemn quiet o'er the glen's repose ; 
Lends to the rustling pines a deeper moan. 
And the hoarse river's voice a murmur not its own. 

LII. 

For stillness now — the stillness of the dead. 
Hath wrapt that conflict's lone and awful scene, 
And man's forsaken homes, in ruin spread. 
Tell where the storming of the clifls hath been. 
And there, o'er wastes magnificently rude. 
What race may rove, unconscious of the chain? 
Those realms have now no desert unsubdued. 
Where Freedom's banner may be rear'd again. 
Sunk are the ancient dwellings of her fame. 
The children of her sons inherit but their name. 

LIU. 

Go, seek proud Sparta's monuments and fanes! 
In scatter'd fragments o'er the vale they lie ; 
Of all they were not e'en enough remains, 
To lend their fall a mournful majesty. (24) 
Birth-place of those whose names we first re- 
vered 
In song and story — temple of the free ! 
Oh thou, the stern, the haughty, and the fear'd, 
Are such thy relics, and can this be thee ! 
Thou shouldst have left a giant-wreck behind. 
And e'en in ruin claim'd the wonder of mankind. 

LIV. 

For thine were spirits cast in other mould 
Than all beside — and proved by ruder test ; 
They stood alone— the proud, the firm, the bold. 
With the same seal indelibly imprest. 
Theirs were no bright varieties of mind. 
One image stamp'd the rough, colossal race. 
In rugged grandeur frowning o'er mankind. 
Stern, and disdainful of each milder grace. 
As to the sky some mighty rock may tower, 
Whose front can brave the storm, but will not 
rear the flower. 

LV. 
Such were thy sons— their life a battle-day ! 
Their youth one lesson how for thee to die ! 
Closed is that task, and they have pass'd away 
Like softer beings train'd to aims less high. 
Yet bright on earth their fame who proudly fell, 
True to their shields, the champion of thy cause. 



Whose funeral column bade the stranger tell 
How died the brave, obedient to thy laws! (25) 
O lofty mother of heroic worth. 
How couldst thou live to brihg a meaner oiTspring 
forth ! 

LVI. 

Hadst thou but perish'd vv'ith the free, nor known 
A second race, when Glory's noon went by. 
Then had thy name in single brightness shone 
A watch-word on the helm of liberty ! 
Thou shouldst have pass'd with all thy light of 

fame. 
And proudly sunk in ruins, not in chains. 
But slowly set thy star "midst clouds of shame, 
And tyrants rose amidst the falling fanes ; 
And thou, surrounded by thy warriors' graves, 
Hast drain'd the bitter cup once mingled for thy 

slaves. 

LVII. 

Now all is o'er — for thee alike are flown 
Freedom's bright noon, and Slavery's twilight 

cloud ; 
And in thy fall, as in thy pride, alone. 
Deep solitude is round thee, as a shroud. 
Home of Leonidas! thy halls are low. 
From their cold altars have thy Lares fled. 
O'er thee unraark'd the sun-beams fade or glow, 
And wild flowers wave, unbent by human tread, 
And 'midst thy silence, as the grave's profound, 
A voice, a step would seem as some unearthly 
sound. 

LVIII. 

Taygetus still lifts his awful brow. 
High o'er the inould'ring city of the dead, 
Sternly sublime ; while o'er his robe of snow 
Heaven's floating tints their warm sulfusions 

spread. 
And yet his rippling wave Eurotas leads 
By tombs and ruins o'er the silent plain. 
While whispering there, his own wild graceful 

reeds 
Rise as of old, when hail'd by classic strain ; 
There the rose-laurels still in beauty wave, (2(5) 
And a frail shrub survives to bloom o'er Sparta's 

grave. 

LIX. 

Oh ! thus it is with man— a tree, a flower, 
While nations perish, still renews its race, 
And o'er the fallen records of his power 
Spreads in wild pomp, or smiles in fairy grace. 
The laurel shoots when those have pass'd away 
Once rivals for its crown, the brave, the free ; 
The rose is flourishing o'er beauty's clay. 
The myrtle blows when love hath ceased to be ; 
Green waves the bay when song and bard are 

fled. 
And all that round us blooms, is blooming o'er the 

dead. 

LX. 

And still the olive spreads its foliage round 

Morea's fallen sanctuaries and towers. 

Once its green boughs Minerva's votaries 

crown'd, 
Deem'd a meet ofiering for celestial powers. 
The suppliant's hand its holy branches bore ;(27) 
They waved around th' Olympic victor's head; 
And, sanctified by many a rite of yore. 
Its leaves the Spartan's honour'd bier o'erspread : 
Those rites have vanish'd — but o'er vale and 

hill 
Its fruitful groves arise, revered and hallow'd 

still. (23) 

LXI. 

Where now thy shrines, Eleusis! where thy fane 
Of fearful visions, mysteries wild and high? 
The pomp of rites, the sacrificial train. 
The long procession's awful pageantry ? 
Guench'd is the torch of Ceres (29)— all around 
Decay hath spread the stillness of her reign. 



102 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



There never more shall choral hymns resound, 
O'er the hush'd earth and solitarjr main ; 
Whose wave from Salaniis deserted flows, 
To bathe a silent shore of desolate repose. 

LXII. 

And oh ! ye secret and terrific powers, 
Dark oracles ! in depth of groves that dwelt. 
How are they sunk, the altars of your bovvers. 
Where superstition trembled as she knelt ! 
Ye, the unknown, the viewless ones ! that made 
The elements your voice, the wind and wave ; 
Spirits ! whose influence darkcn'd many a shade. 
Mysterious visitants of fount and cave ! 
How long your power the awe-struck nation 

sway'd. 
How long earth dreamt of you, and shudderingly 

obey'd ! 

LXIII. 
And say, what marvel, in those early days. 
While yet the light of heaven-born truth was 

not. 
If man around him cast a fearful gaze, 
Peopling with shadowy powers each dell and 

grot? 
Awful is Nature in her savage forms. 
Her solemn voice commanding in its might. 
And mystery then was in the rush of storms. 
The gloom of woods, the majesty of night; 
And mortals heard fate's language in the blast. 
And rear'd your forest-shrines, ye phantoms of the 

past! 

LXIV. 

Then through the foliage not a breeze might sigh 
But with prophetic sound— a waving tree, 
A meteor flashing o'er the summer sky, 
A bird's wild flight, reveal'd the things to be. 
All spoke of unseen natures and convey'd 
Their inspiration; still they hover'd round, 
Hallow'd the temple, whisper'd through the 

shade, 
Pervaded loneliness, gave soul to sound ; 
Of them the fount, the forest, murmur'd still. 
Their voice was in the stream, their footstep on 

the hill. 

LXV. 

Now is the train of Superstition flown. 
Unearthly Beings walk on earth no more ; 
The deep wind swells with no portentous tone. 
The rustling wood breathes no fatidic lore. 
Pled are the phantoms of Livadia's cave, 
There dwell no shadows, but of crag and steep; 
Fount of Oblivion ! in thy gushing wave, (30) 
That murmurs nigh, those powers of terror sleep. 
Oh ! that such dreams alone had fled that clime, 
But Greece is changed in all that could be changed 
by time ! 

LXVI. 

Her skies are those whence many a mighty bard 
Caught inspiration, glorious as their beams: 
Her hills the same that heroes died to guard, 
Her vales, that foster'd art's divinest dreams! 
But that bright spirit o'er the land that shone. 
And all around pervading influence ponr'd. 
That lent the harp of iEschylus its tone. 
And proudly hallow'd Lacedtemon's sword. 
And guided Phidias o'er the yielding stone, 
With them its ardours lived— with tliem its light 
is flown. 

LXVII. 

Thebes, Corinth, Argos! — ye, renown 'd of old, 
Where are your chiefs of high romantic name ! 
How soon the tale of ages may be told ! 
A page, a verse, records the fall of fame, 
The work of centuries — we gaz.e on you. 
Oh cities! Once the glorious and the free. 
The lofty tales thatcharm'd our youth renew. 
And wondering ask, if these their scenes could 
be? 



Search for the classic fane, the regal tomb, 
And find the mosque alone— a record of their 
doom ! 

LXVIII. 

How oft hath war his host of spoilers pour'd. 
Fair Elis ! o'er thy consecrated vales ?(31) 
There have the sunbeams glanced on spear and 

sword, 
And banners floated on the balmy gales. 
Once didst thou smile, secure in sanctitude, 
As some enchanted isle 'mid stormy seas ; 
On thee no hostile footstep might intrude. 
And pastoral sounds alone were on thy breeze. 
Forsaken home of peace! that spell is broke, 
Thou too hast heard the storm and bow'd beneath 
the yoke. 

LXIX. 
And through Arcadia's wild and lone retreats 
Far other sounds have echo'd than the strain 
Of faun and dryad, from their woodland seats, 
Or ancient reed of peaceful mountain-swain! 
There, though at times Alpheusyet surveys, 
On his green banks renew'd, the classic dance. 
And nymph-like forms, and wild melodious lays, 
Revive the sylvan scenes of old romance ; 
Yet brooding fear and dark suspicion dwell, 
'Midst Pan's deserted haunts, by fountain, cave, 
and dell. 

LXX. 

But thou, fair Attica ! whose rocky bound 
All art and nature's richest gifts enshrined. 
Thou little sphere, whose soul-illumined round 
Concentrated each sunbeam of the mind; 
Who, as the summit of some Alpine height 
Glows earliest, latest, with the blush of day. 
Didst first imbibe the splendours of the light. 
And smile the longest in its lingering ray ; (32) 
Oh ! let us gaze on thee, and fondly deem 
The past awhile restored, the present but a dream. 

Lxxr. 

Let Fancy's vivid hues awhile prevail — 
Wake at her call — be all thou wert once more! 
Hark, hymns of triumph swell on every gale ! 
Lo, bright processions move along thy shore ! 
Again thy temples 'midst the olive-shade, 
Lovely in chaste simplicity arise ; 
And graceful monuments, in grove and glade. 
Catch the warm tints of thy resplendent skies; 
And sculptured forms, of high and heavenly mien. 
In their calm beauty smile, around the sun- 
bright scene. 

LXXIL 

Again renew'd by thought's creative spells. 
In all her pomp thy city, Theseus ! towers : 
Within, around, the light of glory dwells 
On art's fair fabrics, wisdom's holy bowers. 
There marble fanes in finish'd grace ascend. 
The pencil's world of life and beauty glows; 
Shrines, pillars, porticoes, in grandeur blend, 
Rich with the trophies of barbaric foes, 
And groves of platane wave in verdant pride, 
The sage's blest retreats, by calm Ilissus' tide. 

LXXIII. 

Bright as that fairy vision of the wave. 
Raised by the magic of Morgana's wand, (3.3) 
On summer seas, that undulating lave 
Romantic Sicily's Arcadian strand; 
That pictured scene of airy colonnades, 
Light palaces, in shadowy glory drest. 
Enchanted groves, and temples, and arcades. 
Gleaming and floating on tlie ocean's breast; 
Athens! thus fair the dream of thee appears. 
As Fancy's eye pervades the veiling cloud of years. 

LXXIV. 

Still be that cloud withdrawn— oh ! mark on high, 
Crowning yon hill, with temples richly graced, 
That fane august in perfect symmetry. 
The purest model of Athenian taste. 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



103 



Fair Parthenon ! thy Doric pillars rise. 
In simple dignity, thy marble's hue 
Unsullied shines, relieved by brilliant skies, 
That round thee spread their deep ethereal blue; 
And art o'er all thy light proportions throws 
Tlie harmony of grace, the beauty of repose. 

LXXV. 

And lovely o'er thee sleeps the sunny glow, 
When morn and eve in tranquil splendour reign. 
And on thy sculptures, as they smile, bestow 
Hues that the pencil emulates in vain. 
Then the fair forms by Pliidias wrought, unfold 
Each latent grace, developing in light. 
Catch from soft clouds of purple and of gold, 
Each tint that passes, tremulously bright ; 
And seem indeed whate'er devotion deems. 
While so suffiised with heaven, so mingling with 
its beams. 

LXXVI. 

But oh! what words the vision may portray, 
The form of sanctitude that guards thy shrine? 
There stands thy goddess, robed in war's array. 
Supremely glorious, awfully divine ! 
With spear and helm she stands, and flowing 

vest. 
And sculptured ffigis, to perfection wrought, 
And on each heavenly lineament imprest. 
Calmly sublime, the majesty of thought ; 
The pure intelligence, the chaste repose,— 
All that a poet's dream around Minerva throws. 

Lxxvir. 

Bright age of Pericles! let fancy still 

Through Time's deep shadows all thy splendour 

trace, 
And in each work of art's consummate skill 
Hail the free spirit of thy lofty race. 
That spirit, roused by every proud reward. 
That hope could picture, glory could bestow, 
Foster'd by all the sculptor and the bard 
Could give of immortality below. 
Thus were thy heroes form'd, and o'er their 

name 
Thus did thy genius shed imperishable fame. 

LXXVIII. 

Mark in the throng'd Ceramicus, the train 
Of mourners weeping o'er the martyr'd brave: 
Proud be the tears devoted to the slain, 
Holy the amaranth strew'd upon their grave ! (34) 
And hark — unrivall'd eloquence proclaims 
Their deeds, their trophies, with triumphant 

voice! 
Hark — Pericles records their honour'dnames!(35) 
Sons of the fallen, in their lot rejoice : 
What hath life brighter than so bright a doom ? 
What power hath fate to soil the garlands of the 

tomb ? 

LXXIX. 

Praise to the valiant dead ! for them doth art 
E.\haust her skill, their triumphs bodying forth ; 
Theirs are enshrined names, and every heart 
Shall bear the blazon'd impress of their worth. 
Bright on the dreams of youth their fame shall 

rise. 
Their fields of fight shall epic song record, 
And when the voice of battle rends the skies. 
Their name shall be their country's rallying 

word ! 
While fane and column rise august to tell 
How Athens honours those for her who proudly 

fell. 

LXXX. 

City of Theseus! bursting on the mind, 
Thus dost thou rise, in all thy glory fled ! 
Thus guarded by the mighty of mankind, 
Thus hallow'd by the memory of the dead ; 
Alone in beauty and renown — a scene 
Whose tints are drawn from freedom's loveliest 
ray. 



'Tis but a vision now— yet thou hast been 
More than the brightest vision might portray ; 
And every stone, with but a vestige fraught 
Of thee, hath latent power to wake some lofty 
thought. 

LXXXI. 

Fallen are thy fabrics, that so oft have rung 
To choral melodies, and tragic lore ; 
Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung, 
The song that hail'd Harmodius peals no more. 
Thy proud Pirajus is a desert strand. 
Thy stately shrines are mouldering on their hill, 
Closed are the triumphs of tlie sculptor's hand, 
The magic voice of eloquence is still ; 
Minerva's veil is rent (36) — her image gone, 
Silent the sage's bower— the warrior's tomb o'er- 
thrown. 

LXXXII. 

Yet in decay thine exquisite remains 
Wondering we view, and silently revere 
As traces left on earth's forsaken plains 
By vanish'd beings of a nobler sphere ! 
Not all the old magnificence of Rome, 
All that dominion there hath left to time, 
Proud Coliseum, or commanding dome, , 
Triumphal arch, or obelisk sublime. 
Can bid such reverence o'er the spirit steal 
As aught by thee imprest with beauty's plastic seal. 

LXXXIII. 

Though still the empress of the sun-burnt waste. 

Palmyra rises, desolately grand — 

Though with rich gold (37) and massy sculpture 

graced, 
Commanding still, Persepolis may stand 
In haughty solitude— though sacred Nile 
The first-born temples of the world surveys, 
And many an awful and stupendous pile 
Thebes of the hundred gates e'en yet displays ; 
City of Pericles ! oh, who like thee 
Can teach how fair the works of mortal hand may 
be? 

LXXXIV. 

Thou led'st the way to that immortal sphere 
Where sovereign beauty dwells ; and thence 

didst bear 
Oh, still triumphant in that high career! 
Bright archetypes of all the grand and fair. 
And still to thee th' enlighten'd mind hath flown. 
As to her country ; — thou hast been to earth 
.A cynosure: and e'en from victory's throne, 
Imperial Rome gave homage to thy worth ; 
And nations, rising to their fame afar, 
Still to thy model turn, as seamen to their star. 

LXXXV, 

Glory to those whose relics thus arrest 
The gaze of ages ! Glory to the free ! 
For they, they only, could have thus imprest 
Their mighty image on the years to be ! 
Empires and cities in oblivion lie. 
Grandeur may vanish, conquest be forgot ; — 
To leave on earth renown that cannot die. 
Of high-soul'd genius is th' unrivall'd lot. 
Honour to thee, O Athens ! thou hast shown 
What mortals may attain, and seized the palm 
alone. 

LXXXVI. 

Oh ! live there those who view with scornful eyes 
All that attests the brightness of thy prime ! 
Yes ; they who dwell beneath thy lovely skies, 
And breathe th' inspiring ether of thy clime ! 
Their path is o'er the mightiest of the dead, 
Their homes are 'midst the works of noblest arts ; 
Yet all around their gaze, beneath their tread, 
Not one proud thrill of loftier thought imparts. 
Such are the conquerors of Minerva's land, 
Where genius first reveal'd the triumphs of his 
hand ! 



104 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



xxxvir. 

For them in vain the glowing light may smile 
O'er the pale marble, colouring's warmth to 

shed, 
And in chaste beauty many a sculptured pile 
Still o'er the dust of heroes lift its head. 
No patriot feeling binds them to the soil. 
Whose tombs and shrines their fathers have 

not rear'd, 
Tlieir gla"nce is cold inditference, and their toil 
But to destroy what ages have revered. 
As if exulting sternly to erase 
Whate'er might prove that land had nursed a no- 
bler race. 

LXXXVIII. 

And who may grieve that, rescued from their 

hands. 
Spoilers of excellence and foes to art, 
Thy relics, Athens! borne to other lands. 
Claim homage still to thee from every heart? 
Though now no more th' exploring stranger's 

sight, 
Fix'd in deep reverence on Minerva's fane. 
Shall hail, beneath their native heaven of light. 
All that remain'd of forms adored in vain ; 
A few short years — and, vanish'd from the scene, 
To blend with classic dust their proudest lot had 

been. 

LXXXIX. 

Fair Parthenon ! yet still must fancy weep 
For thee, thou work of nobler spirits fiovi'n. 
Bright, as of old, the sunbeams o'er thee sleep 
In alt their beauty still— and thine is gone ! 
Empires have sunk since thou wert first revered, 
And varying rites have sanctified thy shrine. 
The dust is round thee of the race that rear'd 
Thy walls ; and thou— their fate must soon be 

thine ! 
But when shall earth again exult to see 
Visions divine like tlieirs renew'd in aught like 

thee ? 

XC. 

Lone are thy pillars now— each passing gale 
Sighs o'er them as a spirit's voice, which moan'd 
That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale 
Of the bright synod once above them throned. 
Mourn, graceful ruin ! on thy sacred hill. 
Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate hath shared; 
Yet art thou honour'd in each fragment still 
That wasting years and barbarous hands had 

spared ; 
Bach hallow'd stone, from rapine's fury borne. 
Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet un- 
born. 

XCI. 

Yes; in those fragments, though by timodefaced. 
And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains 
All that may charm th' enlighten'd eye of taste. 
On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns. 
As vital fragrance breathes from every part 
Of the crush'd myrtle, or the bruised rose, 
E'en thus th' essential energy of art. 
There in each wreck imperishably glows ! (38) 
The soul of Athens lives in every line, 
Pervading briglitly still the ruins of her shrine. 

XCTI. 

Mark — on the storied frieze the graceful train. 

The holy festival's triumphal throng. 

In fair procession, to Minerva's fane. 

With many a sacred symbol move along. 

There every shade of bright existence trace. 

The fire of youth, the dignity of age ; 

The matron's calm austerity of grace. 

The ardent warrior, the benignant sage ; 

The nymph's light symmetry, the chief's proud 

mien. 
Each ray of beauty caught and mingled in the 

scene. 



XCIII. 

Art unobtrusive there ennobles form, (39) 
Each pure, chaste outline exquisitely flows; 
There e'en the steed, with bold expression 

warm, (40) 
Is clothed with majesty, with being glows. 
One mighty mind hath harmonized the whole ; 
Those varied groups the same bright impress 

bear ; 
One beam and essence of exalting soul 
Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair ; 
And well that pageant of the glorious dead 
Blends us with nobler days, and loftier spirits fled, 

XCIV. 

O conquering Genius ! that couldst thus detain 
The subtle graces, fading as they rise, 
Eternalize expression's fleeting reign, 
Arrest warm life in all its energies. 
And fix them on the stone— thy glorious lot 
Might vcake ambition's envy, and create 
Powers half divine : while nations are forgot, 
A thought, a dream of thine hath vanquish'd 

fate! 
And when thy hand first gave its wonders birth. 
The realms that hail them now scarce claim'd a 

name on earth. 

XCV. 

Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere 
But once beheld, and never to return ? 
No — we may hail again thy bright career, 
Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn ! 
Though thy last relics, e'en in ruin, bear 
A stamp of heaven, that ne'er hath been re- 
new'd — 
A light inherent— let not man despair : 
Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued; 
For still is nature fair, and thought divine. 
And art hath vi^on a world in models pure as 
thine. (41) 

XCVI. 
Gaze on yon forms, corroded and defaced — 
Yet there the germ of future glory lies ! 
Their virtual grandeur could not be erased. 
It clothes them still, though veil'd from common 

eyes. 
They once were gods and heroes (42)— and beheld 
As the blest guardians of their native scene ; 
Andheartsof warriors, sages, bards, have swell'd 
With awe that own'd their sov'reignty of mien. 
— Ages have vanish'd since those hearts were 

cold. 
And still those shatter'd forms retain their godlike 

mould. 

XCVII. 

'Midst their bright kindred, from their marble 
throne. 

They have look'd down on thousand storms of 
time ; 

Surviving power and fame and freedom flown, 

They still remain'd, still tranquilly sublime! 

Till mortal hands the heavenly conclave marr'd. 

Th' Olympian groups have sunk, and are forgot ; 

Not e'en their dust could weeping Athens guard — 

—But these were destined to a nobler lot ! 

And they have borne, to light another land. 
The quenchless ray that soon shall gloriously ex- 
pand. 

XCVIII. 

Phidias! supreme in thought! what hand but 

thine. 
In human works thus blending earth and heaven , 
O'er Nature's truth hath shed that grace divine, 
To mortal form immortal grandeur given? 
What soul but thine, infusing all its power, 
In these last monuments of matchless days. 
Could from their ruins bid young Genius tower. 
And Hope aspire to more exalted praise ? 
And guide deep thought to that secluded height, 
Where excellence is throned, in purity of light. 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



105 



XCIX. 

And who can tell how pure, how bright a flame 
Caught from these models, may illume the west ? 
What British Angelo may rise to fame, (43) 
On the free isle what beams of art may rest ? 
Deem not, O England ! that by climes confined, 
Genius and taste diffuse a partial ray ;(44) 
Deem not the eternal energies of mind 
Sway'd by that sun whose doom is but decay ! 
Shall thought be foster'd but by skies serene ? 
No ! thou hast power to be what Athens e'er hath 
been. 

C. 

But thine are treasures oft unprized, unknown. 
And cold neglect hath blighted many a mind. 
O'er whose young ardours, had thy smile but 

shone, 
Their soaring flight had left a world behind ! 
And many a gifted hand, that might have 

wrought 
To Grecian excellence the breathing stone. 
Or each pure grace of Raphael's pencil caught, 
Leaving no record of its power, is gone! 
While thou hast fondly sought, on distant coast. 
Gems far less rich than those, thus precious, and 

thus lost. 

CI. 

Yet rise, O Land in all but Art alone. 
Bid the sole wreath that is not thine be won ! 
Fame dwells around thee— Genius is thine own ; 
Call his rich blooms to life — be Thou their Sun ! 
So should dark ages o'er thy glory sweep. 
Should thine e'er be as now are Grecian plains. 
Nations unborn shall track thine own blue deep. 
To hail thy shore, to worship thy remains ; 
Thy mighty monuments with reverence trace. 
And cry, " This ancient soil hath nursed a glorious 
race !" 



NOTES. 



Note I. 
Round Doric Tmsturri's solitary fanes. 
" The Fcestan rose, from its peculi-ar fragrance and the siDe:ularity 
of blowing twice a year, is often mentioned by the classic poets. 
The wild rose, which now shoots up among the ruins, is of the 
small single damask kind, with a very high perfume; as a farmer 
assured me on the spot, it flowers both in spring and autumc." — 
Swinburne's Travels in the Two Sicilies. 

Note 2. 

Stcellcd d^er that tide — the sons of battle sleep. 

In the naval ensragements of the Greeks, "it ■was usual for the 

soldiers before the fight to sing a pgean, or hymn, to Mars, and after 

the fight another to ApoWo."— See Patterns Mntiquities ofGreece, vol. 

ii, p. 155, 

Note 3. 
Her own bright East, thy son, Moreaf flies. 
The emigration of the natives of the Morea to different parts of 
Asia is thus mentioned by Chateaubriand in his "Itineraire da Paris 
a Jerusalem" — " Parvenu au dernier degre du malheur, le Moraite 
s'ararche deson pays, et va cbercher en Asie un sort moins rigoureux. 
Vain espoir! il retrouve des cadis et des pachas jusques dans les sa- 
bles de Jourdainet dans les deserts de Palmyre." 

N0T13 4. 

Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms. 

In the same work, Chateaubriand also relates his having met with 

several Greek emigrants who had established themselves in the 

woods of Florida. 

Note 5. 

^nd isles of flowers, bright-ficating o^er the tide. 
** La grace est toujours uniea la magnificence dans les scenes de 
la nature ; et tandis que le courant dn milieu entraine vers la mer 
les cadavres des pins et des chenes, on voit sur les deux courans 
lateraux remonter le long des rivages des iles flottantes de Pistia et 
de Nenuphar, dont les roses jaunes s'elevent comme de petits papil- 
lons." — Description of the banks of the Mississippij Chateau- 
hriand's "^iaia." 

Note 6- 

Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time. 

"Looking generally at the narrowness and abruptness of Ibis 

mountain-channel fTempe) and contrasting it with the course of the 

Feneus, through the plains of Thessaly, the imagination instantly 



recurs to the tradition that these plains were once covered with 
water for which some convulsion of nature had subsequently opened 
this narrow passage. Tlie term vale, in our language, is usually 
employed to describe scenery in whicli the predominant features are 
breadth, beauty, and repose. The reader has already perceived that 
the term is wholly inapplicable to the scenery at this spot, and that 

tlie phrase vale ot Tempe is one that depends on poetic fiction. 

The real character of Tempe, though it perhaps be le^s beautiful, 
yet possesses more of magnificence than is implied in the epithet 
given to it. To those who have visited St. Vincent's rocks, be- 
low Bristol, I cannot convey a more sufficient idea of Tempe, than 
by saying that its scenery resembles, though on a much larger scale, 
that of the former place. The Feneus indeed, as it flows through the 
valley, is not greatly wider than the Avon; and ttie channel be- 
tween the cliffs is equally contracted in its dimensions; but these 
much loftier and more precipitous, and project 
^ :.i- -i:ii extraordinary abruptness 

- -'- ■ Albania, <^c. 



clitfs themsel 

their vast masses of rock with still 

over the hollow hene3,th." —Holland's Travels 



14 



Note 7. 
Years, that have changed thy river^s classic name. 
The modern name of the Feneus is Salympria. 

Note 8. 
Where the rich arbute's coral berries glow. 
"Towards the lower part of Tempe, these cliffs are peaked in a 
very singular manner, and form projecting angles on the vast per- 
pendicular faces of the rock which they present" towards the chasm ; 
where the surface renders it possible, the summits and ledges 
of the rocks are for the most part covered with small wood, 
chiefiy oak, with the arbutus and other shrubs. On the banks of the 
river, wherever there is a small interval between the water and the 
cliffs, it is covered by the rich and widely spreading foliage of the 
plane, the oak, and other forest trees, which in these situations have 
attained a remarkable size, and in various places extend their shadow 

far over the channel of the stream." " The rocks on each side 

the vale of Tempe are evidently the same ; what may be called, I 
believe, a coarse bluish gray marble, with veins and portions of the 
rock, in which the marble is of finer quality."— ^oZ/and's Travels 
in Albania, SfC. 

Note 9. 

Where Greece her councils held, her Pythian victors croioned. 

The Amphictyonic council was convened in spring and autumn 
at Delphi or Thermopyls, and presided at the Pythian games whicli 
were celebrated at Delphi every fifth year. 

Note 10. 

Blown the wild laurels o'er the warlike dead. 
" This spot (the field of Mantinea) on which so many brave men 
were laid to rest, is now covered with rosemary and laurels." — 
PouqucviUe's Travels in the Morea. 

Note II. 

Where the dark upas taints the gale around. 
For the accounts of the upas or poison-tree of Java, now generally 
believed to be fabulous, or greatly exaggerated, see the notes to Dar- 
win's Botanic Garden. 

Note 12. 

Its sculptured lions, richly wrought arcades. 
" The court most to be admired of the Alhambra is that called the 
court of the Lions; it is ornamented with sixty elegant pillars of an 
architecture which bears not the least resemblance to any of the 
known orders, and might be called the Arabian order. But its principal 
ornament, and that from which it took its name, is an alabaster cup, 
six feet in diameter, supported by twelve lions, which is said to 
have been made in imitation nf the Brazen Sea of Solomon's temple." 
— Bourgoanne's Travels in Spain. 

Note 13. 

Bright as that Pleiad spho-ed in Mecca'' s fane. 

"Sept des plus fameux parmi les anciens poetes Arabiques. sont 

designes par les ecrivains orientaux sous le nom de Pleinde ArabiquCj 

et leurs ouvrages etaient suspendus autour de la Caaba ou Mosque 

de la Mecque." — Sismondi. Litterature du Midi. 

Note 14. 

And thou, last and noblest Comtantine ! 

"Thedistressand fall ofthe last Constantine are more glorious than 

the long prosperity of the Byzantine Caesars." — Gibbon's Decline 

and Fall, •SfC. vol. xii. p. 226. 

Note 15. 
The closing night of that imperial race I 
See the description of the night previous to the taking of Constan- 
tinople by Mahomet 11.— Gibbon, vol. xii, p. 225. 

Note 16. 

Jind the Seven Toujers are scaled, and all is won and lost. 
"This building (the Castie of the Seven Towers) is mentioned as 
early as the sisth century of the Christian era, as a spot which con- 
tributed to the defence of Constantinople, and it was the principal 
bulwark of the town on the coast of the Fropontis, in the last periods 
of the empire." — Pouque^ille^s Travels in the Morea. 

Note 17. 
Prewved inviolate their awful fane. 
See the account from Herodotus of the supernatural defence of 
Delphi.— Mitford's Greece, vol. i. p. 396, 7. 



106 



IIEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



Note 18. 
iVTio from tfie dead at Marathon arose. 
" In succeeding a°;es the Athenians honoured Theseus as a demi-god, 
induced to it as well by other reasons, as because, when they were 
fighting the Medes at Marathon, a considerable part of the army 
thought they saw the apparition of Theseus completely armed, and 
bearing down before thera upon the Barbarians. "—ia«g/ionit;'5 
Plutarc/i, Life of Theseus. 

Note 19. 

Or they whose forms, to Marie's awe-struck eye. 
" From Thermopylse to Sparta, the leader of the Goths (Alaric) 
pursued his victorious march without encountering any mortal an- 
tagonist: but one of the advocates of expiring paganism has confi- 
dently asserted, that the walls of Athens were guarded by the goddess 
Minerva, ,with her formidable Kgis, and by the angry phantom of 
Achilles, and that the conqueror wasdismayed by the presence of the 
hostile deities of Greece."— Gi^ioTi'* Decline and Fall, ^c. vol. v. 
p. 183. 

Note 20. 

¥e slept, oh heroes ! chief ones of the earth. 

*'EvenaU the chief ones of the earth."— Isaiah, Kth chapter. 

Note 21. 

Perished the conquering weapons of your war. 
"How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished !" 
Samuel, 2d book, 1st chap. 

Note 22. 
O'er SulVs froumins rocks she paused awhile. 
For several interesting particulars relative to the Suliote warfare 
with All Pasha, see Holland's Travels in Albania. 

Note 23. 
Then on the cliff the frantic mother stood. 
"It is related as an authentic story, that a group of Suliote women 
assembled on one of the precipices adjoining the modern serag! io, and 
ttrew their infants into the chasm below, that they might not be- 
come the slaves of the enemy."— Holland^s TravelSj ^c. 

Note 24. 

To lend their fall a mournful majesty. 

The ruins of Sparta, near the modern town of Mistra, are very 

inconsiderable, and only sufficient to mark the site of the ancient 

city. The scenery around them is described by travellers as very 

striking. 

Note 25. 

How died the brave, obedient to thy laws. 
The inscription composed by Simonides for the Spartan monu- 
ment in the pass of Therinopylai has been thus translated—" Stran- 
ger, go tell the Lacedemonians that we have obeyed their laws, and 
that we lie here." 

Note 26. 

There the rose-laurels still in beauty waue. 
" In the Eurotas I observed abundance of those famous reeds 
which were known in the earliest ages, and all the rivers and marshes 
of Greece are replete with rose-laurels, while the springs and rivu- 
lets are covered with lilies, tuberoses, hyacinths, and narcissus ori- 
entaiis." — Pouqueuille's Travels in the Morea. 

Note 27. 
The supplianVs hand its holy branches bore. 
It was usual for suppliants to carry an olive branch bound with 
wool. 

Note 28. 

Its fruitful groves arise, revered and hallowed still. 
The olive, according to Pouqueville, is still regarded witli venera- 
tion by the people of the Morea. 

Note 29. 
Quenched is the torch of Ceres— all around. 
It was customary at Eleusis on the fifth day of the festival, for 
men and women to run about with torches in their hands, and also 
to dedicate torches to Ceres, and to contend who should present the 
largest. This was done in memory of the journey of Ceres in search 
of Proserpine, during which she was lighted by a torch kindled in the 
flames of E.lnd..— Potter's Antiquities of Greece, vol. i. p. 392. 

Note 30. 

Fount of Oblivion ! in thy gushing wave. 

The Fountains of Oblivion and Memory, with the Hercynian 

fountain, are still to be seen amongst the rocks near Livadia, though 

the situation of the cave of Tro])honius in their vicinity cannot be 

exactly ascertained—See Hollaiid's Travels. 

Note 31. 
Fair Elis, o^er thy consecrated vales. 
Elis was anciently a sacred territory, its inhabitants being con- 
sidered as consecrated to the service of Jupiter. All armies march- 
ing through it delivered up their weapons, and received them again 
when they had passed its boundary. 

Note 32. 

And smile the longest in its lingering ra.y. 
" We are assured by Thucydides that Attica was the province of 



Greece in which population first became settled, and where the ear- 
liest progress was made toward civilization."— Mi(/brd'-s Greece, vol, 
i. p. 35. 

Note 33. 
Raised by the magic of Morgana'' s wand. 

Fata Morgana. This remarkable aerial phenomenon, which is 
thought by the lower orders of Sicilians to be the work of a fairy, 
is thus described by father Angelucci, whose account is quoted by 
Swinburne. 

" On the 15th August, 1643, I was surprised, as I stood at my 
window, with a most wonderful spectacle ; the sea that washes the 
Sicilian shore swelled, and became, for ten miles in length, like a 
chain of dark mountains, while the waters cear our Calabrian coast 
grew quite smooth, and in an instant appeared like one clear polished 
mirror. On this glass was depicted, inchiaro scuro, a string of several 
thousands of pilasters all equal in height, distance, and degrees of 
light and shade. In a moment they bent into arcades, like Roman 
aqueducts. A long cornice was next formed at the top, and above 
it rose innumerable castles, all perfectly alike j these again changed 
into towers, which were shortly after lost in colonnades, then win- 
dows, and at last ended in pines, cypresses and other trees."— 5ioin- 
burne^s Travels in the Two Sicilies. 

Note 34. 
ffoly the amaranth strewed upon their grove. 
All sorts of purple and white flowers were supposed by the Greeks 
to be acceptable to the dead, and used in adorning tombs; as ama- 
ranth, with which fheThessalians decorated the tomb of Achilles. — 
Patterns Antiquities of Greece, vol. ii. p. 232. 

Note 35. 
Hark ! Pericles records their honoured names. 
Pericles, on his return to Athens after the reduction of Samos, 
celebrated in a splendid manner the obsequies of his countrymen who 
fell in that war, and pronounced, himself, the funeral oration usual 
on such occasions. This gained him great applause j and when he 
came down from the rostrum, the women paid their respects to him, 
and presented him with crowns and chaplets, like a champion just 
rtiturned victorious from the Vists.—Langhome^s Plutarch, Life of 
Pericles 

Note 36. 
Minerva'^s veil is rent — her image gone. 
The peplus, which is supposed to have been suspended as an awn- 
ing over the statue of Minerva, in the Parthenon, was a principal or- 
nament of the Panathenaic festival ; it was embroidered with various 
colours, representing the battle of the Gods and Titans, and the ex- 
ploits of Athenian heroes. When the festival was celebrated, the 
peplus was brought from the Acropolis, and suspended as a sail to the 
vessel, which on that day was conducted through the Ceramicus and 
principal streets of Athens, till it had made the circuit of the Acro- 
polis. The peplus was then carried to the Parthenon, and conse- 
crated to Minerva. — See Ch.andler''s Travels, StewarVs Athens, &c. 

Note 37. 
Though with rich gold and massy sculpture graced. 
The gilding amidst the ruins of Persepolis is still, according to 
Winckelmann, in high preservation. 

Note 38. 

There in each wreck imperishably glows. 
" In the most broken fragment the same great principle of life can 
be proved to exist, as in the most perfect figure," is one of the ob- 
servations of Mr. Haydon on the Elgin Marbles, 

Note 39. 

Art unobtntsive tha'c ennobles jorm. 

"Every thing here breathes life, with a veracity, with an exquisite 

knowledge of art, but without the least ostentation or parade of it, 

which is concealed by consummate and masterly skill." — Canova^s 

Letter to the Earl of Elgin. 

Note 40. 

There e'en the steed with bold expression warm. 
Dr. West, after expressing his admiration of the horse's head in 
Lord Elgin's collection of Athenian sculpture, thus proceeds : *' We 
feel the same when we view the young equestrian Athenians, and 
in observing them we are insensibly carried on with the impression, 
that they and their horses actually existed, as we see them, at the 
instant when they were converted into marble." — West's Second 
Letter to Lord Elgin. 

Note 41. 

And art hath won a world in models pure as thine. 
Mr. Flaxman thinks that sculpture has very greatly irnproved 
within these last twenty years, and that his opinion is not singular, 
because works of such prime importance as the Elgin marbles could 
not remain in any country without a consequent improvement of the 
public taste, and the talents of the artist. — See the Evidence given 
in reply to inter) ogatories from the Committee on the Elgin 
Marbles. 

Note 42. 

They once, -were gods and heroes^and beheld. 
The Theseus and Ilissus, which are considered by Sir T. Law- 
rence, Mr. Westmacott, and other distinguished artists, to be of a 
higher class than the Apollo Belvidere; "because there is in thera 
an union of very grand form with a more true and natural expres- 
sion of the efl'ect of action upon the human frame, than there is in 
the Apollo, or any of the other more celebrated statues."— See the 
Evidence, <^c. 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



107 



Note 43. 
JVhat British Angela may rise to fame* 
"Let us suppose a young man at this time in London, endowed 
with powers such as enabled Michael Angelo to advance the arts, 
as he did, by the aid oC one mulilaled specimen of Grecian excel- 
lence in sculpture; to what an eminence might not such a genius 
carry art, by the opportunity of studying tliose sculptures m the ag- 
gregate, which adorned the temple of Minerva at Athens ?"— W^Cit'i 
isccinid Letter to Lord Elgin. 

Note 44. 

Genius and taste diffuse a partial ray. 

In alUision to the theories of Du Bos, Winckelmann, Montesquieu, 

&c. with regard to the inlierent obstacles in the climate of England 

to the progress of genius and the arts.— See Hoare's Epochs of the 

Jlris^ page S-A, 5. 



DARTMOOR, 



A PRIZE POEM. 



Come bright Improvement, on the car of Time, 
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime! 
Thy handmaid, Art, shall every wild explore, 
Trace every wave and culture every shore. 

Campiiell. 



May ne'er 
That true succession fail of English hearts. 
That can perceive, not less than heretofore 
Our ancestors did feelingly perceive, 

the charm 

Of pious sentiment, diffused afar, 
And human charity, and social love. 

Wordsworth, 



Amidst the peopled and the regal Isle, 
Whose vales, rejoicing in their beauty, smile; 
Whose cities, fearless of the spoiler, tower. 
And send on every breeze a voice of power ; 
Hath Desolation rear'd herself a throne. 
And mark'd a pathless region for her own ? 
Yes ! though tliy turf no stain of carnage wore, 
When bled the noble hearts of many a shore. 
Though not a hostile step thy heath-flowers bent. 
When empires totter'd, and the earth was rent ; 
Yet lone, as if some trampler of mankind 
Had stiird life's busy murmurs on the wind. 
And, flush'd with power, in daring Pride's excess, 
Stamp'd on thy soil the curse of barrenness ; 
For thee in vain descend the dews of heaven. 
In vain the sunbeam and the shower are given ; 
Wild Dartmoor ! thou that, 'midst thy mountains 

rude. 
Hast robed thyself with haughty solitude, 
As a dark cloud on Summer's clear-blue sky, 
A mourner, circled with festivity! 
For all beyond is life! — the rolling sea. 
The rush, the swell, whose echoes reach not thee. 
Yet who shall find a scene so wild and bare. 
But man has left his lingering traces there ? 
E'en on mysterious Afric's boundless plains, 
Where noon with attributes of midnight reigns, 
In gloom and silence, fearfully profound, 
As of a world unwaked to soul or sound ; 
Though the sad wanderer of the burning zone 
Feels, as amidst infinity, alone. 
And naught of life be near ; his camel's tread 
Is o'er the prostrate cities of the dead ! 
Some column, rear'd by long-forgotten hands. 
Just lifts its head above the billowy sands — 
Some mouldering shrinestill consecrates the scene. 
And tells that Glory's footstep there hath been. 
There hath the spirit of the mighty pass'd. 
Not without record ; though the desert-blast. 
Borne on the wings of Time, hath swept away 
The proud creations, rear'd to brave decay. 
But thou, lone region ! whose unnoticed name 
No lofty deeds have mingled with their fame. 
Who shall unfold thine annals ? Who shall tell 
If on thy soil the sons of heroes fell. 



In those far ages, which have left no trace. 
No sunbeam on the pathway of their race ? 
Though, haply, in the unrecorded days 
Of kings and chiefs, who pass'd without their 

praise. 
Thou niight'st have rear'd the valiant and the free, 
In history's page there is no tale of thee. — 

Yet hast thou thy memorials. On the wild 
Still rise the cairns of yore, all rudely piled, (1) 
But hallow'd, by that instinct, which reveres 
Things fraught with characters of elder years. 
And such are these. Long centuries are flown, 
Bow'd many a crest, and shatter'd many a throne. 
Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust. 
With that they hide — their shrined and treasured 

dust; 
Men traverse Alps and Oceans, to behold 
Earth's glorious works fast mingling with her 

mould ; 
But still these nameless chronicles of death, 
'Midst the deep silence of the unpeopled heath, 
Stand in primeval artlessness, and wear 
The same sepulchral mien, and almost share 
Th' eternity of nature, with the forms 
Of the crown'd hills beyond, the dwellings of the 

storms. 

Yet, what avails it, if each moss-grown heap 
Still on the waste its lonely vigils keep. 
Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath 
(Nor needs such care) from each cold season's 

breath ? 
Where is the voice to tell their tale who rest. 
Thus rudely pillow'd, on the desert's breast? 
Doth the sword sleep beside them ? Hath there been 
A sound of battle 'midst the silent scene. 
Where now the flocks repose ? did the scythed car 
Here reap its harvest in the ranks of war? 
And rise these piles in memory of the slain. 
And the red combat of the mountain-plain ? 

It may be thus: the vestiges of strife. 
Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life. 
And the rude arrow's barb remains to tell (2) 
How by its stroke perchance the mighty fell 
To be forgotten. Vain the warrior's pride. 
The chieftain's power — they had no bard, and 

died. (.3) 
But other scenes, from their untroubled sphere. 
The eternal stars of night have witness'd here. 
There stands an altar of unsculptured stone, (4) 
Far on the moor, a thing of ages gone, 
Propp'd on its granite pillars, whence the rains, 
And pure bright dews, have laved the crimson 

stains 
Left by dark rites of blood : for here, of yore. 
When the bleak waste a robe of forest wore. 
And many a crested oak, which now lies low. 
Waved its wild wreath of sacred misletoe ; 
Here, at dead midnight, through the haunted shade, 
On Druid-harps the quivering moon-beam play'd. 
And spells were breathed, that fill'd the deepening 

gloom 
With the pale, shadowy people of the tomb. 
Or, haply, torches waving through the night, 
Bade the red cairn-fires blaze from every height, (.5) 
Like battle-signals, whose unearthly gleams 
Threw o'er the desert's hundred hills and streams, 
A savage grandeur ; while the starry skies 
Rung with the peal of mystic harmonies. 
As the loud harp its deep-toned hymns sent forth 
To the storm-ruling powers, the war-gods of the 

North. 

But wilder sounds were there ; th' imploring cry 
That woke the forest's echo in reply. 
But not the heart's! — Unmoved, the wizard train 
Stood round their human victim, and in vain 
His prayer for mercy rose; in vain his glance 
Look'd up, appealing to the blue expanse. 
Where, in their calm, immortal beauty, shone 
Heaven's cloudless orbs. With faint and fainter 

moan, 
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice he lay. 
Till, drop by drop, life's current ebb'd away ; 



108 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



Till rock and turf grew deeply, darkly red, 
And the pale moon gleam'd paler on the dead. 
Have such things been, and here ? — where still- 
ness dwells 
'Midst the rude barrows and the moorland swells. 
Thus undisturb'd? — Oh! long the gulf of tiuie 
Hath closed in darkness o'er those days of crime, 
And earth no vestige of their path retains, 
Save such as these, which strew her loneliest 

plains 
With records of man's conflicts and his doom. 
His spirit and his dust— the altar and the tomb. 

But ages roli'd away : and England stood, 
With her proud banner streaming o'er the flood, 
And with a lofty calmness in her eye, 
And regal in collected majesty, 
To breast the storm of battle. Every breeze 
Bore sounds of triumph o'er her own blue seas ; 
And other lands, redeem'd and joyous, drank 
The life-blood of her heroes, as they sank 
On the red fields they won ; whose wild flowers 

wave 
Now in luxuriant beauty, o'er their grave. 

'T was then the captives of Britannia's war, (C) 
Here for their lovely southern climes afar. 
In bondage pined : the spell-deluded throng 
Dragg'd at Ambition's chariot-wheels so long 
To die, — because a despot could not clasp 
A sceptre, fitted to his boundless grasp! 

Yes ! they whose march had rock'd the ancient 
thrones 
And temples of the world ; the deepening tones 
Of whose advancing trumpet, from repose 
Had startled nations, wakening to their woes. 
Were prisoners here.— And there were some whose 

dreams 
Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain- 
streams. 
And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain. 
And festal melody of Loire or Seine, 
And of those mothers, who had watch'd and wept. 
When on the field the unshelter'd conscript slept. 
Bathed with the midnight dews. And some were 

there, 
Of sterner spirits, harden'd by despair ; 
Who in their dark imaginings, again 
Fired the rich palace and the stately fane. 
Drank in the victim's shriek, as music's breath, 
And lived o'er scenes, the festivals of death ! 

And there was mirth too !— strange and savage 
mirth. 
More fearful far than all the woes of earth! 
The laughter of cold hearts, and scoffs that spring 
Prom minds for which there is no sacred thing. 
And transient bursts of fierce, exulting glee, — 
The lightning's flash upon its blasted tree ! 

But still, howe'er the soul's disguise were worn, 
If, from wild revelry, or haughty scorn, 
Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show. 
Slight was the mask, and all beneath it — woe. 

Yet was this all ? — amidst the dungeon-gloom. 
The void, the stillness, of the captive's doom. 
Were there no deeper thoughts ?— And that dark 

power. 
To whom guilt owes one late, but dreadful hour, 
The mighty debt through years of crime delay'd. 
But, as the grave's, inevitably paid ; 
Came he not thither, in his burning force. 
The lord, the tamer of dark souls— Remorse ? 

Yes! as the night calls forth from sea and sky. 
From breeze and wood, a solemn harmony. 
Lost, when the swift, triumphant wheels of day. 
In light and sound, are hurrying on their way: 
Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart. 
The voice which sleeps, but never dies, might start, 
Call'd up by solitude, each nerve to thrill. 
With accents heard not, save when all is still ! 



The voice, inaudible, when Havoc's train 
Cnish'd the red vintage of devoted Spain ; 
Mute, when sierras to the war-whoop rung, 
And the broad light of conflagration sprung 
From the South's marble cities; — hush'd 'midst 

cries 
That told the Heavens of mortal agonies ; 
But gathering silent strength, to wake at last, 
In concentrated thunders of the past! 

And there, perchance, some long-bewilder'd mind, 
Torn from its lowly sphere, its path confined 
Of village-duties, in the alpine glen, 
Where. nature cast its lot, 'midst peasant-men ; 
Drawn to that vortex, whose fierce ruler blent 
The earthquake-power of each wild element, 
To lend the tide which bore his throne on high. 
One impulse more of desperate energy; 
Might, when the billow's awful rush was o'er. 
Which toss'd its wreck upon the storm-beat shore. 
Won from its wanderings past, by suffering tried, 
Search'd 'ny remorse, by anguish purified, 
Have fix'd at length its troubled hopes and fears. 
On the far world, seen brightest through our tears. 
And in that hour of triumph or despair, 
Whose secrets all must learn — but none declare, 
When, of the things to come, a deeper sense 
Fills the dim eye of trembling penitence. 
Have turn'd to him, whose bow is in the cloud. 
Around life's limits gathering, as a shroud ; — 
The fearful mysteries of the heart who knows, 
And, by tlie tempest, calls it to repose! 

Who visited that death-bed ? — Who can tell 
Its brief, sad tale, on which the soul might dwell, 
And learn immortal lessons? — who beheld 
The struggling hope, by shame, by doubt repell'd — 
The agony of prayer— the bursting tears — 
The dark remembrances of guilty j'ears. 
Crowding upon the spirit in their might? — 
He, through the storm who look'd, and there was 
light ! 

That scene is closed !— that wild, tumultuous 
breast. 
With all its pangs and passions, is at rest! 
He, too, is fallen, the master-power of strife. 
Who woke those passions to delirious life; 
And days, prepared a brighter course to run. 
Unfold their buoyant pinions to the sun ! 

It is a glorious hour when Spring goes forth, 
O'er the bleak mountains of the shadowy North, 
And with one radiant glance, one magic breath. 
Wakes all things lovely from the sleep of death ; 
While the glad voices of a thousand streams. 
Bursting their bondage, triumph in her beams ! 

But Peace hath nobler changes ! O'er the mind, 
The warm and living spirit of mankind, 
fler influence breathes, and bids the blighted heart. 
To life and hope from desolation start! 
She, with a look, dissolves the captive's chain. 
Peopling with beauty widow'd homes again ; 
Around the mother, in her closing years. 
Gathering her sons once more, and from the tears 
Of the dim past, but winning purer light. 
To make the present more serenely bright. 

Nor rests that influence here. From clime to 

clime. 
In silence gliding with the stream of time. 
Still doth it spread, borne onwards, as a breeze 
With healing on its wings, o'er isles and seas: 
And, as heaven's breath call'd forth, with genial 

power. 
From the dry wand, the almond's living flower; 
So doth its deep-felt charm in secret move 
The coldest heart to gentle deeds of love ; 
While round its pathway nature softly glows. 
And the wide desert blossoms as the rose. 

Yes ! let the waste lift up the exulting voice ! 
Let the far-echoing solitude rejoice ! 
And thou, lone moor! where no blithe reaper's 

song 
E'er lightly sped the summer-hours along, 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



109 



Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain-source, 
Rushing in joy, make music on their course ! 
Thou, whose sole record of existence mark 
The scene of barbarous rites, in ages dark. 
And of some nameless combat ; Hope's bright eye 
Beams o'er thee in the light of prophecy ! 
Yet shall thou smile, by busy culture drest. 
And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast ! 
Yet shall thy cottage-smoke, at dewy morn. 
Rise, in blue wreaths, above the llowering thorn. 
And 'midst thy hamlet-shades, the embosom'd spire 
Catch from deep-kindling lieaveus their earliest 
fire. 

Thee too that hour shall bless, the balmy close 
Of labour's day, the herald of repose. 
Which gathers hearts in peace ; while social mirth 
Basks in the blaze of each free village-hearth ; 
While peasant-songs are on the joyous gales. 
And merry England's voice floats up from all her 

vales. 
Yet are there sweeter sounds; and thou shalt hear 
Such as to Heaven's immortal host are dear. 
Oh! if there still be melody on earth. 
Worthy the sacred bowers where man drew birth. 
When angel-steps their paths rejoicing trod, 
And the air trembled with the breath of God ; 
It lives in those soft accents, to the sky (7) 
Borne from the lips of stainless infancy. 
When holy strains, from life's pure fount which 

sprung. 
Breathed with deep reverence, falter on its tongue. 

And such shall be thy music, when the cells, 
Where Guilt, the child of hopeless Misery, dwells, 
(And, to wild strength by desperation wrought, 
In silence broods o'er many a fearful thought,) 
Resound to pity's voice ; and childhood thence, 
Ere the cold blight hath reach'd its innocence. 
Ere that soft rose-bloom of the soul be fled. 
Which vice but breathes on, and its hues are dead, 
Shall at the call press forward, to be made 
A glorious offering, meet for him, who said, 
" Mercy, not sacrifice !" and vi'hen, of old. 
Clouds of rich incense from his altars roU'd, 
Dispersed the smoke of perfumes, and laid bare 
The heart's deep folds, to read its homage there ! 

When some crown'd conqueror, o'er a trampled 
world. 
His banner, shadowing nations, hath unfurl'd. 
And, like those visitations which deform 
Nature for centuries, hath made the storm 
His pathway to Dominion's lonely sphere, 
Silence behind, — before him, flight and fear; 
When kingdoms rock beneath his rushing wheels, 
Till each far isle the mighty impulse feels, 
And earth is moulded but by one proud will. 
And sceptred realms wear fetters, and are still ; 
Shall the free soul of song bow down to pay 
The earthquake homage on its baleful way ? 
Shall the glad harp send up exulting strains. 
O'er burning cities and forsaken plains? 
And shall no harmony of softer close. 
Attend the stream of mercy as it flows. 
And, mingling with the murmur of its v/ave. 
Bless the green shores its gentle currents lave ? 

Oh! there are loftier themes, for him, whose eyes 
Have search'd the depths of life's realities, 
Than the red battle, or the trophied car, 
Wheeling the monarch- victor fast and far; 
There are more noble strains than those which 

swell 
The triumphs, Ruin may suflice to tell ! 

Ye prophet-bards, who sat in elder days 
Beneath the palms of Judah ! Ye whose lays 
With torrent rapture, from their source on high. 
Burst in the strength of immortality I 
Oh! not alone, those haunted groves among. 
Of conquering hosts, of empires crush'd, ye sung. 
But of that Spirit, destined to explore 
With the bright day-spring every distant shore, 



To dry the tear, to bind the broken reed. 
To make the home of peace in hearts that bleed ; 
With beams of hope to pierce the dungeon's gloom, 
And pour eternal star-light o'er the tomb. 

And bless'd and hallow'd be its haunts ! for there 
Hath man's high soul been rescued from despair !— 
There hath the immortal spark for Heaven been 

nursed,— 
There from the rock the springs of life have burst, 
Quenchless and pure ! and holy thoughts, that rise, 
Wann from the source of human sympathies, — 
Where'er its path of radiance may be traced, 
Shall find their temple in the silent waste. 



NOTES. 



KOTE 1. 
Still rise the cairns of ym-e, all rudely -piled. 
In some parts of Dartmoor, the surface is thickly strewed with 
stones, which, in many instances, appear to have been collected into 
piles, on the tops of prominent hillocks, as if in imitation of the 
natural Tors. The Sione-barrows of Dartmoor resemble the Cairns 
of the Cheviot and Grampian hills, and those in Cornwall. — See 
Cooke's Topographical Survey of Devonshire, 

Note 2, 

And the rude arrow^s barb remain to tell. 

Flint arrow-heads have occasionally been found upon Dartmoor. 

Note 3. 
The chieftain's power— they had no bard^ and died. 
Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona 
Multi : Sed omnes illachrymabiles 
Urgentur, ignotique longa 

Nocte, carent quia vate sacro. 

Horace. 
"They had no Poet, and they died." Pope^s Translation. 

Note 4. 
There stands an altar of unsculptured stmie. 
On the east of Dartmoor are someDruidical remains, one of which 
is a Cromlech, whose three rough pillars of granite support a pon- 
derous table-stone, and form a kind of large, irregular tripod. 

Note 5. 
Bade the red cairn-fires blaze from every height. 
In some of the Druid festivals, fires were lighted on all the cairns 
and eminences around, hy priests, carrying sacred torches. All the 
household fires were previously extinguished, and those who were 
thought worthy of such a privilege, were allowed to relight them 
with a flaming brand, kindled at the consecrated cairn-fire. 

Note 6. 

^Twas then the captives of Britannia's war. 
The French prisoners, taken in the wars with Napoleon, were 
confined in a depot on Dartmoor. 

Note 7. 

It lives in those soft accents, to the sMj. 
In allusion to a plan for the erection of a great national school- 
house on Dartmoor, where it was proposed to educate the children 



THE 

MEETING OF WALLACE AND BRUCE 

ON THE 
BANKS OF THE CAKRON. 



A PRIZE POEM. 



The Scottish historians describe the hero, after the bat- 
tle of Falkirk, by his military talents and presence of 
mind, preserving the troops under his own command, 
and retreating leisurely and in good order, along the 
banks of the little river Carron, which protected him 
from the enemy. They add, that Robert Bruce* ap- 
peared on the opposite side of the river, and soon dis- 

* Not Robert Bruce, afterwards king of Scotland, but his father. 



no 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



tinguishing the majestic figure of Wallace, he called 
out to him, and desired a conference. They represent 
the Scottish hero as seizing this opportunifj' to awalien 
the feelings of patriotism in the j'outliful mind of 
Bruce ; as appealing to him in behalf of his country, 
and describing lier oppressed state, as the consequence 
of being deserted by those whom nature and fortune 
pointed out, as best fitted by birth and character to 
maintain the national independence. The enthusiasm 
of the speaker is said to have made a deep impression 
on Bruce, who from that time repented of his engage- 
ments with Edward, and secretly determined to seize 
the first opportunity of aiding the cause of his na- 
tive country. 



Thb morn rose bright on scenes renown'd, 

Wild Caledonia's classic ground, 

Where the bold sons of other days 

Won their high fame in Ossian's Jays, 

And fell— but not till Carron's tide 

With Roman blood was darkly dyed. 

— The morn rose bright, and heard the cry 

Sent by exulting hosts on high. 

And saw the white-cross banner float 

(While rang each clansman's gathering note) 

O'er the dark plumes and serried spears 

Of Scotland's daring mountaineers. 

As, all elate with hope, they stood 

To buy their freedom with their blood. 

The sunset shone, to guide the flying. 
And beam a farewell to the dying ! 
The summer-moon, on Falkirk's field, 
Streams upon eyes in slumber seal'd : 
Deep slumber, not to pass away. 
When breaks another morning's ray, 
Nor vanish when the trumpet's voice 
Bids ardent hearts again rejoice: 
What sunbeam's glow, what clarion's breath, 
May chase the still, cold, sleep of Death ? 
Shrouded in Scotland's blood-stain'd plaid 
Low are her mountain-warriors laid ; 
They fell, on that proud soil, whose mould 
Was blent with heroes' dust, of old, 
And, guarded by the free and brave, 
Yielded the Roman but a grave ! 
Nobly they fell — yet with them died 
The warrior's hope, the leader's pride. 
Vainly they fell — that martyr host — ■ 
All, save the land's high soul, is lost. 
Blest are the slain ! they calmly sleep. 
Nor see their bleeding country weep ; 
The shouts, of England's triumph telling, 
Reach not their dark and silent dwelling ; 
And those, surviving to bequeath 
Their sons the choice of chains or death. 
May give the slumberer's lowly bier 
An envying glance, — but not a tear. 
But thou, the fearless and the free. 
Devoted Knight of EUerslie ! 
No vassal-spirit, form'd to bow 
When storms are gathering, clouds thy brow, 
No shade of fear, or weak despair, 
Blends with indignant sorrow there. 
The ray which streams on yon red field, 
O'er Scotland's cloven helm and shield. 
Glitters not there alone, to shed 
Its cloudless beauty o'er the dead. 
But, where smooth Carron's rippling wave 
Flows near that death-bed of the brave. 
Illuming all the midnight scene, 
Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien. 

But other beams, O Patriot ! shine 
In each commanding glance of thine, 
And other light hathfill'd thine eye 
With inspiration's majesty. 
Caught from the immortal frame divine 
Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine! 
Thy voice a Prophet's tone hath vi'on. 
The grandeur Freedom lends her son; 
Thy bearing, a resistless power. 
The ruling genius of the hour ; 



And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride, 
Whom Carron's waves from thee divide, 
Whose haughty gesture fain would seek 
To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek, 
Feels his reluctant mind cont.roU'd 
By thine, of more heroic mould; 
Though, struggling all in vain to war 
With that high mind's ascendant star, 
He, with a conqueror's scornful eye, 
Would mock the name of Liberty. 

— Heard ye the Patriot's awful voice ? 
" Proud victor ! in thy fame rejoice! 
Hast thou not seen thy brethren slain, 
The harvest of thy battle-plain, 
And bathed thy sword in blood, whose spot 
Eternity shall cancel not? 
Rejoice ! with sounds of wild lament. 
O'er her dark heaths and mountains sent, 
With dying moan, and dirge's wail. 
Thy ravaged country bids thee hail I 
Rejoice ! — while yet exulting cries 
From England's conquering host arise, 
And strains of choral triumph tell 
Her royal Slave hath fought too well. 
Oh ! dark the clouds of woe that rest 
Brooding o'er Scotland's mountain-crest ; 
Her shield is cleft, her banner torn. 
O'er martyr'd chiefs her daughters mourn ; 
And not a breeze, but wafts the sound 
Of wailing through the land around. 
Yet deem not thou, till life depart. 
High hope shall leave the patriot's heart, 
Or courage, to the storm inured. 
Or stern resolve, by woes matured, 
Oppose, to Fate's severest hour. 
Less than unconquerable power. 
No! though the orbs of heaven expire. 
Thine, Freedom! is a quenchless fire ! 
And woe to him whose might would dare 
The energies of thy despair! 
No !— when thy chain, O Bruce ! is cast 
O'er thy land's charter'd mountain-blast, 
Then in my yielding soul shall die 
The glorious faith of Liberty !" 

" Wild hopes ! o'er dreamer's mind that rise,' 
With haughty laugh, the Conqueror cries, 
(Yet his dark cheek is flush'd with shame. 
And his eye fiU'd with troubled flame ;) 
" 'Vain, brief illusions ! doom'd to fly 
England's red path of victory ! 
Is not her sword unmatch'd in might? 
Her course, a torrent in the fighf? 
The terror of her name gone forth 
Wide o'er the regions of the North? 
Far hence, 'midst other heaths and snows. 
Must Freedom's footstep now repose. 
And thou, in lofty dreams elate, 
Enthusiast! strive no more with Fate! 
'Tis vain — the land is lost and won — 
Sheathed be the sword, its task is done. 
Where are the chiefs who stood with thee, 
First in the battles of the free ? 
The firm in heart ; in spirit high ? 
— They sought yon fatal field to die. 
Each step of Edward's conquering host 
Hath left a grave on Scotland's coast." 

" Vassal of England ! yes, a grave. 
Where sleep the faithful and the brave; 
And who the glory would resign 
Of death like theirs, for life like thine ? 
They slumber — and the stranger's tread 
May spurn thy country's noble dead; 
Yet, on the land they loved so well. 
Still shall their burning spirit dwell. 
Their deeds shall hallow minstrel's theme, 
Their imago rise on warrior's dream. 
Their names be inspiration's breath. 
Kindling high hope, and scorn of death. 
Till bursts immortal from the tomb. 
The flame that shall avenge their doom! 
This is no land for chains — away! 
O'er softer climes let tyrants sway ! 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



Ill 



Tliink'st thou the mountain and the stonn 

Their hardy sons for bondage form? 

Doth our stern wintry blast instil 

Submission to a despot's will? 

— No! we were cast in other mould 

Than theirs, by lawless power controU'd. 

The nurture of our bitter sky 

Calls forth resisting energy, 

And the wild fastnesses are ours. 

The rocks with their eternal towers ! 

The soul to struggle and to dare. 

Is mingled with our northern air. 

And dust beneath our soil is lying, 

Of those who died for fame undying. 

Tread'st thou that soil, and can it be 

No loftier thought is roused in thee? 

Doth no high feeling proudly start 

From slumber in thine inmost heart ? 

No secret voice thy bosom thrill, 

For thine own Scotland pleading still? 

Oh ! wake thee yet ! — indignant claim 

A nobler fate, a purer fame, 

And cast to earth thy fetters riven, 

And take thine ofter'd crown from Heaven I 

Wake ! in that high majestic lot. 

May the dark past be all forgot. 

And Scotland shall forgive the field. 

Where with her blood thy shame was seal'd. 

E'en I, — though on that fatal plain 

Lies my heart's brother with the slain, 

Though, reft of his heroic worth, 

My spirit dwells alone on earth. 

And when all other grief is past. 

Must this be cherish'd to the last ; — 

Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne, 

With faith unspotted as his own, 

Nor in thy noon of fame recall 

Whose was the guilt that wrought his fall." 

Still dost thou hear in stern disdain ? 
Are Freedom's warning accents vain ? 
No, royal Bruce! within thy breast. 
Wakes each high thought, too long suppress'd. 
And thy heart's noblest feelings live. 
Blent in that suppliant word — " Forgive ! 
Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done ! 
Wallace! thy fairest palm is won ; 
And kindling at my country's shrine. 
My soul hath caught a spark from thine. 
Oh ! deem not, in the proudest hour 
Of triumph and exulting power. 
Deem not the light of peace could find 
A liome within my troubled mind. 
Conflicts by mortal eye unseen. 
Dark, silent, secret, there have been. 
Known but to Him, whose glance can trace 
Thought to its deepest dwelling-place. 
— 'T is past, and on my native shore 
I tread, a rebel son no more. 
Too blest, if yet my lot may be, 
In glory's path to follow thee ; 
If tears, by late repentance pour'd, 
May lave the blood-stains from my sword." 

— Far other tears, O Wallace ! rise 
From thy heart's fountain to thine eyes. 
Bright, holy, and uncheck'd they spring. 
While thy voice falters, " Hail, my King ! 
Be every wrong by memory traced. 
In this full tide of joy, effaced ! 
Hail ! and rejoice ! thy race shall claim 
An heritage of deathless fame. 
And Scotland shall arise at length, 
Majestic in triumphant strength. 
An eagle of the rock, that v/on 
A way, through tempests, to the sun. 
Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand. 
The prophet-spirit of thy land ! 
By torrent wave, in desert blast. 
Those visions o'er my thoughts have pass'd. 



Where mountain-vapours darkly roll. 
That spirit hath possess'd my soul, 
And shadowy forms have met mine eye, 
The beings of futurity; 
And a deep voice of years to be. 
Hath told that Scotland shall be free. 

"He comes! exult, thou Sire of Kings! 
From thee the Chief, the Avenger springs ! 
Far o'er the land he comes to save. 
His banners in their glory wave. 
And Albyn's thousand harps awake 
On hill and heath, by stream and lake. 
To swell the strains that far around 
Bid the proud name of Bruce resound. 
And I — but wherefore now recall 
The whisper'd omens of my fall? 
They come not in mysterious gloom, 
— There is no bondage in the tomb ! 
O'er the soul's world no tyrant reigns. 
And earth alone for man hath chains ! 
What though I perish ere the hour 
When Scotland's vengeance wakes in po'i.ver, 
If shed for her, my blood shall stain 
The field or scaffold not in vain. 
Its voice, to efforts more sublime. 
Shall rouse the spirit of her clime, 
And in the noontide of her lot, 
My country shall forget me not !" 



Jlrt thou forgot 1 and hath thy worth 

Without its glory pass'd from Earth? 

— Rest with the brave, whose names belong 

To the high sanctity of song, 

Charter'd our reverence to control. 

And traced in sunbeams on the soul. 

Thine, Wallace ! while the heart hath still 

One pulse a generous thought can thrill. 

While Youth's warm tears are yet the meed 

Of martyr's death, or hero's deed. 

Shall brightly live, from age to age, 

Thy country's proudest heritage. 

'Midst her green vales thy fame is dwelling. 

Thy deeds her mountain-winds are telling, 

Thy memory speaks in torrent-wave. 

Thy step hath hallow'd rock and cave ; 

And cold the wanderer's heart must be. 

That holds no converse there with thee. 

Yet, Scotland! to thy champion's shade. 
Still are thy grateful rites delay'd. 
From lands of old renown, o'erspread 
With proud memorials of the dead. 
The trophied urn, the breathing bust. 
The pillar, guarding noble dust. 
The shrine, where art and genius high 
Have labour'd for Eternity ; — 
The stranger comes,— his eye explores 
The wilds of thy majestic shores, 
Yet vainly seeks one native stone. 
Raised to the hero all thine own. 

Land of bright deeds and minstrel lore ! 
Withhold the guerdon now no more ! 
On some bold height of awful form. 
Stern eyrie of the cloud and storm. 
Sublimely mingling with the skies. 
Bid the proud Cenotaph arise! 
Not to record the name that thrills 
Thy soul, the watch-word of thy hills; 
Not to assert with needless claim, 
The bright for ever of its fame ; 
But in the ages yet untold. 
When mirs shall be the days of old, 
To rouse high hearts, and speak thy pride 
In him, for thee who lived and died. 



112 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



Eht %UBt ©oiistantinc. 



Thou strivest nobly, 

When hearts of sterner stuff perhaps had sunk j 

And o'er thy fall, if it be so decreed. 

Good men will mourn, and brave men will shed tears. 

Tame I look not for, 

But to sustain, in Heaven's all-seeing eye. 
Before my fellow-men, in mine own sight, 
With graceful virtue and becoming pride, 
The dignity and honour of a man. 
Thus station'd as I am, I will do all 
That man may do. 

Miss Eaillie^s Constantino Palxolo^us^ 



The fires grew pale on Rome's deserted shrines, 
In the dim grot the Pytliia's voice had died ; 
— Shout, for the City of the Constantines, 
The rising City of the billow-side. 
The City of the Cross !— great Ocean's bride, 
Crown'd from her birth slie sprung!— Long ages 

pass'd, 
And still she look'd in glory o'er the tide. 
Which at her feet Barbaric riches cast, 
Pour'd by the burning East, all joyously and fast. 

II. 

Long ages past— they left her porphyry halls 
Still trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and gold 
Broider'd her mantle, and her castled walls 
Frown'd in their strength; yet there were signs 

which told 
The days were full. The pure high faith of old 
Was changed ; and on her silken couch of sleep 
She lay, and murmur'd if a rose-leaf's fold 
Disturb'd her dreams; and call'd her slaves to 

keep 
Their watch, that no rude sound might reach her 

o'er the deep. 

III. 

But there are sounds that from the regal dwelling 
Free hearts and fearless only may exclude ; 
'Tis not alone the wind at midnight swelling, 
Breaks on the soft repose by Luxury woo'd ! 
There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude 
Where the lamps glitter, and the wine-cup flows. 
And darker hues have stain'd the marble, strew'd 
With the fresh myrtle, and the short-lived rose, 
And Parian walls have rung to the dread march 
of foes. 

IV. 

A voice of multitudes is on the breeze. 
Remote, yet solemn as the night-storm's roar 
Through Ida's giant pines ! Across the seas 
A murmur comes, like that tlie deep winds bore 
From Tempe's haunted river to the shore 
Of the reed-crown'd Eurotas; when, of old. 
Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o'er 
Th' indignant wave which would not be con- 

troU'd, 
But, past the Persian's chain, in boundless freedom 

roil'd. 

V. 

And it is thus again !— Swift oars are dashing 

The parted waters, and a light is cast 

On their white foam-wreaths, froin the sudden 

flashing 
Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening 

fast. 
There swells a savage trumpet on the blast, 
A music of the deserts, wild and deep. 
Wakening strange echoes as the shores are past. 
Where low 'midst Ilion's dust her conquerors 
sleep, 
O'ershadowing with high names each rude sepul- 
chral heap. 



VI. 

War from the West ! — the snows on Thracian 

hills 
Are loosed by Spring's warm breath ; yet o'er 

the lands 
Which Ha!nius girds, the chainless mountain rills 
Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands. 
War from the East I— 'midst Araby's lone sands, 
More lonely now the few bright founts may be, 
While Ishmael's bow is bent in warrior-hands 
Against the Golden City of the Sea ; (1) 
— Oh ! for a soul to fire thy dust, Thermopylaj ! 

VII. 

Here yet again, ye mighty ! — where are they. 
Who, with theirgreenOlympicgarlandscrown'd, 
Leap'd up in proudly beautiful array. 
As to a banquet gathering, at the sound 
Of Persia's clarion 1 — far and joyous round, 
From the pine-forests, and the mountain-snows, 
And the low sylvan valleys, to the bound 
Of the bright waves, at Freedom's voice they 
rose! 
— Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb's re- 
pose ? 

VIII. 

They slumber with their swords!— the olive 

shades 
In vain are whispering their immortal tale! 
In vain the spirit of the past pervades 
The soft winds breathing through each Grecian 

vale. 
— Yet must thou wake, though all unarm'd and 

pale. 
Devoted City! — Lo ! the Moslem's spear. 
Red from its vintage, at thy gates ; his sail 
Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear ! 
— Awake and summon those, who yet, perchance, 

may hear ! 

IX. 

Behush'd, thou faint and feeble voice of weeping! 
Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high. 
And call on chiefs whose noble sires are sleeping 
In their proud graves of sainted chivalry. 
Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh 
To Syrian gales! — The sons of each brave line, 
From their baronial halls shall hear your cry. 
And seize the arms which flash'd round Salem's 

shrine, 
And wield for you the swords once waved for 

Palestine ! 

X. 
All still, all voiceless ;— and the billow's roar 
Alone replies !— Alike their soul is gone. 
Who shared the funeral feast on Q^Ita's shore, 
And theirs, that o'er the field of Ascalon 
Svvell'd the crusader's hymn ! — Then gird thou on 
Thine armour, Eastern Queen ! and meet the 

hour. 
Which waits thee ere the day's fierce work is 

done, 
With a strong heart ; so may thy helmet tower 
Unshiver'd through the storm, for generous hope 

is power ! 

XI. 

But linger not, — array thy men of might ! 
The shores, the seas are peopled with thy foes. 
Arms through thy cypress-groves are gleaming 

bright, 
And the dark huntsmen of the wild, repose 
Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes 
Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near. 
Around thy walls the sons of battle close ; 
Each hour, each moment, hath its sound of fear. 
Which the deep grave alone is charter'd not to 

hear. 

XII. 

Away ! bring wine, bring odours to the shade, (2) 
Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high! 
Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade ! 
Snatch every brief delight,— since we must die! — 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



113 



Yet is the hour, degenerate Greeks ! gone by, 
For feast in vine-vvreatiied bovver, or piliar'd 

hall ; 
Dim gleams the torch beneath yon fiery sky, 
And deep and hollow is the tambour's call. 
And from the startled hand tli' untasted cup will 

fall. 

XIII. 

The night, the glorious oriental night. 
Hath lost the silence of her purple heaven, 
With its clear stars ! The red artillery's light, 
Athwart her worldsof tranquil splendourdriven, 
To the still firmament's expanse hath given 
Its own fierce glare, wherein each clitf and 

tower 
Starts wildly forth ; and now the air is riven 
With thunder-bursts, and now dull smoke-clouds 
lower. 
Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallow'd hour. 

XIV. 

Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth, 
Sounds in the air, of battle! Yet with these 
A voice is mingling, whose deep tones give birth 
To Faith and Courage ! From luxurious ease 
A gallant few have started ! O'er the seas. 
From the Seven Towers, (3) their banner waves 

its sign, 
And Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze. 
Which plays amidst its folds. That voice was 

thine; 
Thy soul was on that band, devoted Constantino. 

XV. 

Was Rome thy parent ? Didst thou catch from 

her 
The fire that lives in thine undaunted eye 7 
— That city of the throne and sepulchre 
Hath given proud lessons how to reign and die ! 
Heir of the Cssars! did that lineage high. 
Which, as a triumph to the grave, hath pass'd 
With its long march of sceptred imagery, (4) 
Th' heroic mantle o'er thy spirit cast ? 
— Thou of an eagle-race the noblest and the last ! 

XVI. 

Vain dreams! upon that spirit hath descended 
Light from the living Fountain, whence each 

thought 
Springs pure and holy ! In that eye is blended 
A spark, with Earth's triumphal memories 

fraught, 
And far within, a deeper meaning, caught 
From worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust, 
Whose resting place on buoyant wing is sought, 
(Though through its veil, seen darkly from the 

dust,) 
In realms where Time no more hath power upon 

the just. 

XVII. 

Those were proud days, when on the battle-plain. 
And in the sun's bright face, and 'midst the array 
Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain. 
The Roman cast his glittering mail away, (5) 
And while a silence, as of midnight, lay 
O'er breathless thousands, at his voice who 

started, 
Call'd on the unseen, terrific powers that sway 
The heights, the depths, the shades ; then fear- 
less-hearted. 
Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave de- 
parted. 

XVIII. 

But then, around him as the javelins rush'd. 
From earth to heaven swell'd up the loud ac- 
claim ; 
And, ere his heart's last free libation gush'd. 
With a bright smile thewarriorcaught his name. 
Far floating on the winds ! And Victory came, 
And made the hour of that immortal deed 
A life in fiery feeling ! Valour's aim 

15 



Had sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bleed, 
Was to be Rome's high star !— He died— and had 
his meed. 

XIX. 

But praise — and dearer, holier praise, be theirs, 
Who, in the stillness and the solitude 
Uncheer'd by Fame's proud hope, th' ethereal food 
Of hearts press'd earthwards by a weight of 

cares. 
Of restless energies, and only view'd 
By Him whose eye, from his eternal throne, 
Is on the soul's dark places ; have subdued 
And vovv'd themselves, with strength till then 
unknown, 
To some high martyr-task, in secret and alone. 

XX. 

Theirs be the bright and sacred names enshrined 
Far in the bosom ! for their deeds belong, 
Not to the gorgeous faith which charm'd man- 
kind 
With its rich pomp of festival and song, 
Garland and shrine, and incense-bearing throng; 
But to that Spirit, hallowing, as it tries 
Man's hidden soul in whispers, yet more strong 
Than storm or earthquake's voice ; for thence 
arise 
All that mysterious world's unseen sublimities. 

XXI. 

Well might «/t?/ name, brave Constantine! awake 
Such thought, such feeling ! — But the scene again 
Bursts on my vision, as the day-beams break 
Through the red sulphurous mists ! the camp, 

the plain, 
The terraced palaces, the dome-capt fane, 
With its bright cross fi.x'd high in crowning 

grace ; 
Spears on the ramparts, galleys on the main. 
And, circling all with arms, that turban'd race. 
The sun, the desert, stamp'd in each dark, haughty 

face. 

XXII. - 

Shout, ye seven hills! Lo! Christian pennons 

streaming 
Red o'er the waters! (6) Hail, deliverers, hail ! 
Along your billowy wake the radiance gleaming, 
Is Hope's own smile ! they crowd the swelling 

sail. 
On, with the foam, the sun-beam, and the gale, 
Borne, as a victor's car I The batteries pour 
Their clouds and thunders ; but the rolling veil 
Of smoke floats up th' exulting winds before I 
And oh! the glorious burst of that bright sea and 

shore ! 

XXIII. 

The rocks, waves, ramparts, Europe's, Asia's 

coast. 
All throng'd ! one theatre for kingly war ! 
A monarch girt with his Barbaric host, 
Points o'er the beach his flashing scymetar ! 
Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar. 
Hands waving banners o'er each battlement. 
Decks, with their serried guns, array'd to bar 
The promised aid ; but hark ! a shout is sent 
Up from the noble barks ! — the Moslem line is rent! 

XXIV. 

On, on through rushing flame, and arrowy 

shower, 
The welcome prows have cleft their rapid way, 
And, with the shadows of the vesper-hour, 
Furl'd their white sails, and anchor'd in the bay. 
Then were the streets with song and torch-fire 

gay. 
Then the Greek wines flow'd mantling in the 

lighf 
Of festal halls;— and there was joy ! — the ray 
or dying eyes, a moment wildly bright, 
The sunset of the soul ere lost to mortal sight! 



114 



HEMANS' EARLIER, POEMS. 



XXV. 

For, vain that feeble succour ! Day by day 
Th' imperial towers are crumbling, and tlie 

sweep 
Of the vast engines, in their ceaseless play, 
Comes powerful as when Heaven unbinds the 

deep ! 
— Man's heart is mightier than the castled steep, 
Yet will it sink when earthly hope is fled ; 
Man's thoughts work darkly in such hours, and 

sleep 
Flies far; and in their mien, the walls who 

tread, 
Things by the brave untold, may fearfully be read ! 

XXVI. 

It was a sad and solemn task to hold 
Their midnight-watch on that beleaguer'd wall ! 
As the sea-wave beneath the bastions roU'd, 
A sound of fate was in its rise and fall I 
The heavy clouds were as an empire's pall, 
The giant-sliadows of each tower and fane 
Lay like the grave's; a low, mysterious call 
Breathed in the wind, and from the tented plain 
A voice of omens rose, with each wild martial 
strain. 

XXVII. 

For they might catch the Arab charger's neigh- 
ing. 
The Thracian drum, the Tartar's drowsy song. 
Might almost hear the soldan's banner swaying. 
The watch-word mutter'd in some eastern 

tongue. 
Then flash'd the gun's terrific light along 
The marble streets, all stillness — not repose : 
And boding thoughts came o'er them, dark and 

strong ; 
For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those 
Who see their number'd hours fast pressing to the 
close. 

XXVIII. 

But strength is from the mightiest ! There is one 
Still in the breach and on the rampart seen, 
Whose cheek grows paler wi th each morning sun. 
And tells in silence how the night hath been, 
In kingly halls, a vigil: yet serene, 
The ray set deep within his thoughtful eye, 
And there is that in his collected mien, 
To which the hearts of noble men reply. 
With fires, partaking not this frame's mortality ! 

XXIX. 

Yes ! call it not of lofty minds the fate. 
To pass o'er earth in brightness, but alone ; 
High power was made their birthright, to create 
A thousand thoughts responsive to their own ! 
A thousand echoes of their spirit's tone 
Start into life, where'er their path may be. 
Still following fast ; as when the wind hath 

blown 
O'er Indian groves, (7) a wanderer wild and free, 
Kindling and bearing flames afar from tree to tree ! 

XXX. 
And it is thus with thee 1 thy lot is cast 
On evil days, thou Cssar ! yet the few 
That set their generous bosoms to the blast 
Which rocks thy throne — the fearless and the 

true. 
Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renew 
The free devotion of the years gone by, 
When from bright dreams th' ascendant Roman 

drew 
Enduring strength !— states vanish— ages fly — 
But leave one task unchanged — to sufler and to 

die! 

XXXI. 

These are our nature's heritase. But thou. 
The crown'd with Empire ! thou wert call'd to 

share 
A cup more bitter. On thy fever'd brow 
The semblance of that buoyant hope to wear, 



Which long had pass'd away ; alone to bear 
The rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that 

came 
As a strong billow in their weight of care ; 
And, with all this, to smile! for earth-born frame, 
These are stern conflicts, yet they pass, unknown 

to fame ! 

XXXII. 

Her glance is on the triumph, on the field. 
On the red scaflibld ; and where'er, in sight 
Of human eyes, the human soul is stoel'd 
To deeds that seem as of immortal might. 
Yet are proud nature's! But her meteor-light 
Can pierce no depths, no clouds; it falls not 

where. 
In silence, and in secret, and in night, 
The noble heart doth wrestle with despair. 
And rise more strong than death from its unwit- 

ness'd prayer. 

XXXIII, 

Men have been firm in battle : they have stood 
With a prevailing hope on ravaged plains. 
And won the birthright of their hearths with 

blood, 
And died rejoicing, 'midst their ancient fanes. 
That so their children, undefiled with chains. 
Might worship there in peace. But they that 

stand 
When not a beacon o'er the wave remains, 
Link'd but to perish with a ruin'd land. 
Where Freedom dies with them — call these a mar- 
tyr-band ! 

XXXIV. 
But the world heeds them not. Or if, perchance, 
Upon their strife it bend a careless eye. 
It is but as the Roman's stoic glance 
Fell on that stage where man's last agony 
Was made his sport, who, knowing one must die, 
Reck'd not which champion ; but prepared the 

strain. 
And bound the bloody wreath of victory. 
To greet the conqueror; while, with calm dis- 
dain. 
The vanquish'd proudly met the doom he met in 
vain. 

XXXV. 

The hour of Fate comes on ! and it is fraught 
With this of Liberty, that now the need 
Is past to veil the brow of anxious thought. 
And clothe the heart, which still beneath must 

bleed. 
With Hope's fair-seeming drapery. We are freed 
From tasks like these by Misery ; one alone 
Is left the brave, and rest shall be thy meed, 
Prince, watcher, wearied one ! when thou hast 

shown 
How brief the cloudy space which parts the grave 

and throne. 

XXXVI. 
The signs are full. They are not in the sky. 
Nor in the many voices of the air, 
Nor the swift clouds. No fiery hosts on high 
Toss their wild spears; no meteor-banners glare, 
No comet fiercely shakes its blazing hair. 
And yet the signs are full : too truly seen 
III the thinn'd ramparts, in the pale despair 
Which lends one language to a people's mien, 
And in the ruin'd heaps where walls and towers 
have been ! 

XXXVII. 
It is a night of beauty ; such a night 
As, from the sparry grot or laurel-shade. 
Or wave in marbled cavern rippling bright, 
Might woo the nymphsof Grecian fount and glade 
To sport beneath its moonbeams, which pervade 
Their forest haunts: anight, to rove alone. 
Where the young leaves by vernal winds are 

svvay'd. 
And the reeds whisper, with a dreamy tone 
Of melody, that seems to breathe from worlds un- 
known. 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



115 



XXXVIII. 

A night, to call from green Elj'sidm's bowers 
• The shades of elder bards : a night, to hold 
Unseen communion with th' inspiring powers 
That made deep groves their dwelling-place of 

old; 
A night for mourners, o'er the hallow'd mould, 
To strew sweet flowers; for revellers to fill 
And wreath the cup; for sorrows to be told, 
Which love hatlicherish'd long; — vain thoughts! 

be still! 
— It is a night of fate, stamp'd with Almiglity 

Will ! 

XXXIX. 

It should come sweeping in the storm, and rend- 
ing 

The ancient summits in its dread career ! 

And with vast billows wrathfully contending, 

And withdarkcloudso'ershadowingevery sphere! 

— But He, whose footstep shakes the earth with 
fear, 

Passing to lay the sovereign cities low, 

Alike in His omnipotence is near, 

When the soft winds o'er spring's green path- 
way blow. 
And when His thunders cleave the monarch- 
mountain's brow. 

XL. 

The heavens in still magnificence look down 
On the hush'd Bosphorus, whose ocean-stream 
Sleeps, with its paler stars : the snowy crown 
Of far Olympus, (8) in the moonlight-gleam 
Towers radiantly, as when the Pagan's dream 
Throng'd it with gods, and bent'the adoring 

knee ! 
— But that is past— and now the One Supreme 
Fills not alone tJiose haunts; but earth, air, sea, 
And time, which presses on, to finish his decree. 

XLI. 

Olympus, Ida, Delphi ! ye, the thrones 
And temples of a visionary might, 
Brooding in clouds above your forest-zones. 
And mantling thence the realms beneath with 

night : 
Ye have look'd down on battles! Fear, and 

Flight, 
And arm'd Revenge, all hurrying past below! 
But there is yet a more appalling sight 
For earth prepared, than e'er, with tranquil 

brow, 
Ye gazed on fromyour world of solitude and snow ! 

XLII. 

Last night a sound was in the Moslem camp, 

And Asia's hills re-echoed to a cry 

Of savage mirth!— Wild horn, and war-steeds' 

tramp, 
Blent with the shout of barbarous revelry. 
The clash of desert-spears! Last night the sky 
A hue of menace and of wrath put on, 
Causht from red watch-fires, blazing far and 

high. 
And countless, as the flames, in ages gone. 
Streaming to heaven's bright queen from shadowy 

Lebanon ! 

XLIIL 

But all is stillness now. May this be sleep 
Which wraps those eastern thousands? Yes, 

perchance 
Along yon moonlight shore and dark-blue deep. 
Bright are their visions with the Houri's glance, 
And they behold the sparkling fountains dance 
Beneath the bowers of paradise, that shed 
Rich odours o'er the faithful ; but the lance. 
The bow, the spear, now round the slumberers 

spread. 
Ere Fate fulfil such dreams, must rest beside the 

dead. 



XLIV. 

May this be sleep, this hush?— A sleepless eye 
Doth hold its vigil 'midst that dusky race ! 
One that would scan th' abyss of destiny, 
E'en now is gazing on the skies, to trace. 
In those bright worlds, the burning isles of space. 
Fate's mystic pathway : they the while, serene. 
Walk in their beauty ; but Mohammed's face 
Kindles beneath their aspect, (9) and his mien. 
All fired with stormy joy, by that soft light is seen. 

XLV. 

Oh! wild presumption of a conqueror's dream. 
To gaze on those pure altar-fires, enshrined 
In depths of blue infinitude, and deem 
They shine to guide the spoiler of mankind 
O'er fields of blood !— But with the restless mind 
It hath been ever thus ! and they that weep 
For worlds to conquer, o'er the bounds assign'd 
To human search, in daring pride would sweep. 
As o'er the trampled dust wherein they soon must 
sleep. 

XLVI. 

But ye! thatbeam'don Fate's tremendous night. 
When the storm burst o'er golden Babvlon,^ 
And ye, that sparkled with your wonted light 
O'er burning Salem, by the Roman won ; 
And ye, that calmly view'dthe slaughter done 
In Rome's own streets, when Alaric's trumpet- 
blast 
Rung through the Capitol ; bright spheres! roll 

on ! 
Still bright, though empires fall ; and bid man 
cast 
His humbled eyes to earth, and commune with the 
past. 

XLVII. 

For it hath mighty lessons! from the tomb. 
And from the ruins of the tomb, and where, 
'Midst the wreck'd cities in the desert's gloom, 
All tameless creatures make their savage lair. 
Thence comes its voice, that shakes the midnight 

air. 

And calls up clouds to dim the laughing day. 

And thrills the soul ;— yet bids us iiot despair, 

But make one rock our shelter and our stay, 

Beneath whose shade all else is passing to decay ! 

XLVIIL 

The hours move on. I see a wavering gleam 
O'er the hush'd waters tremulously fall, 
Pour'd from the Cfesars' palace : now the beam 
Of many lamps is brightening in the hall. 
And from its long arcades and pillars tall 
Soft, graceful shadows undulating lie 
On the wave's heaving bosom, and recall 
A thought of Venice, with her moonlight sky 
And festal seas and domes, and fairy pageantry 

XLIX. 

But from that dwelling floats no mirthful sound ! 
The swell of flute and Grecian lyre no more, 
Waftinir an atmosphere of music round, 
Tells the hush'd seaman, gliding past the 

shore. 
How monarchs revel there ! — Its feasts are o'er — 
Why gleam the lights along its colonnade? 
— I see a train of guests in silence pour 
Through its long avenues of terraced shade. 
Whose stately founts and bowers for joy alone 
were made! 



In silence, and in arms! With helm— with 

sword — 
These are no marriage-garments !— Yet e'en now 
Thy nuptial feast should grace the regal board. 
Thy Georgian bride should wreath her lovely 

brow 



116 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



With an imperial diadem ! (10)— but thou, 
O fated prince ! art call'd, and these with thee. 
To darker scenes ; and thou hast learn'd to bow 
Thine Eastern sceptre to the dread decree. 
And count it joy enough to perish— being free ! 

LI. 

On through long vestibules, with solemn tread, 
As men that in some time of fear and woe, 
Bear darkly to their rest the noble dead. 
O'er whom by day their sorrows may not flow. 
The warriors pass : their measured steps are 

slow. 
And hollow echoes fill the marble halls. 
Whose long-drawn vistas open as they go. 
In desolate pomp ; and from the pictured walls, 
Sad seems the light itself, which on their armour 

falls ! 

LII. 

And they have reach'd a gorgeous chamber, 

bright 
With all we dream of splendour ; yet a gloom 
Seems gather'd o'er it to the boding sight, 
A shadow that anticipates the tomb! 
Still from its fretted roof the lamps illume 
A purple canopy, a golden throne ; 
But it is empty !— Hath the stroke of doom 
Fallen there already ?— Where is He, the One, 
Born that high seat to fill, supremely and alone ? 

LIII. 

Oh! there are times whose pressure doth efface 
Earth's vain distinctions!— when the storm 

beats loud. 
When the strong towers are tottering to their 

base. 
And the streets rock,— who mingle in the crowd ? 
—Peasant and chief, the lowly and the proud. 
Are in that throng !— Yes, life hath many an hour 
Which makes us kindred, by one chastening 

bow'd, 
And feeling but, as from the storm we cower. 
What shrinking weakness feels before unbounded 

power ! 

LIV. 

Yet then that Power, whose dwelling is on high, 
Its loftiest marvels doth reveal, and speak 
In the deep human heart more gloriously. 
Than in the bursting thunder!— Thence the 

weak, 
They that seem'd form'd, as flower-stems, but 

to break 
With the first wind, have risen to deeds, whose 

name 
Still calls up thoughts that mantle to the cheek. 
And thrill the pulse !— Ay, strength no pangs 

could tame 
Hath look'd from woman's eye upon the sword 

and flame ! 

LV. 

And this is of such hours !— That throne is void. 
And its lord comes, uncrown'd. Behold him 

stand. 
With a calm brow, where woes have not destroy'd 
The Greek's heroic beauty, 'midst his band. 
The gather'd virtue of a sinking land, 
Alas! how scanty !— Now is cast aside 
All form of princely state ? each noble hand 
Is prest by turns in his : for earthly pride 
There is no room in hearts where earthly hope 
hath died ! 

LVI. 

A moment's hush— and then he speaks, he speaks! 
But not of hope ! that dream hath long gone by : 
His words are full of memory— as he seeks. 
By the strong names of Rome and Liberty, 
Which yet are living powers that fire the eye. 
And rouse the heart of manhood ; and by all 
The sad yet grand remembrances that lie 
Deep with earth's buried heroes ; to recall 
The soul of other years, if but to grace their fall ! 



LVIL 

His words are full of faith! — And thoughts, 

more high 
That Rome e'er knew, now fill his glance'with 

light ; 
Thoughts which give nobler lessons how to die 
Than e'er were drawn from Nature's haughty 

might ! 
And to that eye, with all the spirit bright, 
Have theirs replied in tears, which may not 

shame 
The bravest in such moments! — 'Tis a sight 
To make all earthly splendours cold and tame, 
— That generous burst of soul, with its electric 

flame ! 

Lvrii. 

They weep— those champions of the cross— they 

weep. 
Yet vow themselves to death ! — Ay, 'midst that 

train 
Are martyrs, privileged in tears to steep 
Their lofty sacrifice ! — The pang is vain. 
And yet its gush of sorrow shall not stain 
A warrior's sword.— Those men are strangers 

here (11)— 
The homes, they never may behold again. 
Lie far away, with all things blest and dear. 
On laughing shores, to wliich their barks no more 

shall steer ! 

LIX. 

Know'st thou the land where bloom the orange 

bowers? (12) 
Where through dark foliage gleam the citron's 

dyes? 
It is their own. They see their father's towers, 
'Midst its Hesperian groves in sunlight rise : 
They meet in soul, the bright Italian eyes. 
Which long and vainly shall explore the main 
For their white sail's return : the melodies 
Of that sweet land are floating o'er their brain — 
— Oh! what a crowded world one moment may 

contain ! 

LX. 

Such moments come to thousands I — few may die 
Amidst their native shades. The young, the 

brave, 
The beautiful, whose gladdening voice and eye 
Made summer in a parent's heart, and gave 
Light to their peopled homes ; o'er land and wave 
Are scatter'd fast and far, as rose-leaves fall 
From the deserted stem. They find a grave 
Far from the shadow of th' ancestral hall, 
— A lonely bed is theirs, whose smiles were hope 

to all! 

LXI. 

But life flows on, and bears us with its tide, 
Nor may we, lingering, by the slumberers dwell. 
Though they were those once blooming at our 

side 
In youth's eay home! — Away! what sound's 

deep swell 
Comes on the wind? — It is an empire's knell, 
Slow, sad, majestic, pealing through the night! 
For the last time speaks forth the solemn bell, 
Which calls the Christians to their holiest rite, 
With a funei'eal voice of solitary might. 

LXII. 

Again, and yet again !— A startling power 
In sounds like these lives ever; for they bear 
Full on remembrance each eventful hour. 
Chequering life's crowded path. They fill the air 
When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear 
A mien like joy's; and when young brides are led 
From their paternal homes ; and when the glare 
Of burning streets, on midnight's cloud, waves 

red. 
And when the silent house receives its guest— 

the dead. (13) 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



117 



LXIII. 

But to those tones what thrilling soul was given, 
On that last night of empire! — As a spell 
Whereby the life-blood to its source is driven, 
On the chill'd heart of multitudes they fell. 
I Each cadence seem'd a prophecy, to tell 
Of sceptres passing from their line away. 
An angel-watcher's long and sad farewell, 
Tlie requiem of a faith's departing sway, 
A throne's, a nation's dirge, a wail for earth's de- 
cay. 

LXIV. 

Again, and yet again ! — from yon high dome, 
Still the slow peal comes awfully ; and they 
Who never more to rest in mortal home 
Shall throw the breastplate off at fall of day, 
Th' imperial band in close and arm'd array. 
As men that from the sword must part no more. 
Take through the midnight streets their silent 

way, 
Within tlieir ancient temple to adore. 
Ere yet its thousand years of Christian pomp are 
o'er. 

LXV. 

It is the hour of sleep : yet few the eyes 
O'er which forgetfulness her balm hath shed. 
In the beleagur'd city. Stillness lies 
With moonlight, o'er the hills and waters spread. 
But not the less with signs and sounds of dread, 
The time speeds on. No voice is raised to greet 
The last brave Constantine ; and yet the tread 
Of many steps is in the echoing street. 
And pressure of pale crowds, scarce conscious why 
they meet. 

LXVI. 

Their homes are luxury's yet : why pour they 

thence 
With a dim terror in each restless eye 7 
Hath the dread car, which boars the pestilence, 
In darkness, with its heavy wheels, roll'd by. 
And rock'd their palaces, as if on high 
The whirlwind pass'd ? — From couch and joyous 

board 
Hath the tierce phantom beckon'd them to die ? 
— No! — what are these? — for them a cup is 
pour'd (14) 
More dark with wrath ; — Man comes — the spoiler 

and the sword. 

LXVII. 

Still as the monarch and his chieftains pass 
Through those pale throngs, the streaming torch- 
light throws 
On some wild form, amidst the living mass, 
Hues deeply red, like lava's, which disclose 
What countless shapes are worn bymortal woes ! 
Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasp'd in 

prayer. 
Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears ; all out- 
ward shows 
Betokening inward agonies, were there : 
—Greeks ! Romans ! all but such as image brave 
despair ! 

LXVIII. 

But high above that scene in bright repose. 
And beauty borrowing from the torches' gleams 
A mien of life, yet where no life-blood flows, 
But all instinct with loftier being seems, 
Pale, grand, colossal ; lo ! th' embodied dreams 
Of yore ! — Gods, heroes, bards, in marble 

wrought. 
Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes 
Of mortal passion! — Yet 'twas man that caught. 
And in each glorious form enshrined immortal 

thought ! 

LXIX. 

Stood ye not thus amidst the streets of Rome? 
That Rome which witness'd in her sceptred days. 
So much of noble death? — When shrine and 

dome, 
'Midst clouds of incense, rung with choral lays, 



As the long triumph pass'd with all its blaze 
Of regal spoil, were ye not proudly borne, 
Oh sovereign forms, concentering all the rays 
Of the soul's lightnings?— did ye not adorn 
The pomp which earth stood still to gaze on and 
to mourn ? 

LXX. 

Hath it been thus ?— Or did ye grace the halls, 
Once peopled by the mighty ?— Haply there. 
In your still grandeur, from the pillar'd walls 
Serene ye smiled on banquets of despair. 
Where hopeless courage wrought itself to dare 
The stroke of its deliverance, 'midst the glow 
Of living wreaths, the sighs of perfumed air. 
The sound of lyres, the ilower-crown'd goblet's 
flow : (15) 
—Behold again I— high hearts make nobler offer- 
ings now ! 

LXXL 

The stately fane is reach'd— and at its gate 
The warriors pause ; on life's tumultuous tide 
A stillness falls, while he, whom regal state 
Hath mark'd from all, to be more sternly tried 
By suffering, speaks ;— each ruder voice hath 

died. 
While his implores forgiveness !— " If there be 
One 'midst your throngs, my people '.—whom in 

pride. 
Or passion, I have wrong'd ; such pardon, free 
As mortals hope from Heaven, accord that man to 

me." 

LXXII. 

But all is silence ; and a gush of tears 
Alone replies! — He hath not been of those 
Who, fear'd by many, pine in secret fears 
Of all ; th' environ'd but by slaves and foes. 
To whom day brings not safety, night repose. 
For they have heard the voice cry, "sleep no 

more /" 
Of them he hath not been, nor such, as close 
Their hearts to misery, till the time is o'er. 
When it speaks low and kneels th' oppressor's 

throne before ! 

LXXIIL 

He hath been loved — but who may trust the love 
Of a degenerate race ?— in other mould 
Are cast the free and lofty hearts, that prove 
Their faith through fiery "trials,— yet behold. 
And call him not forsaken, — thoughts untold 
Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread 
Moves firmly to the shrine. — What pomps unfold 
Within its precincts!— isles and seas have shed 
Their gorgeous treasures there, around th' impe- 
rial dead. 

LXXIV. 

'T is a proud vision— that most regal pile 
Of ancient days!— the lamps are streaming bright 
From its rich altar, down each pillar'd isle. 
Whose vista fades in dimness ; but the sight 
Is lost in splendours, as the wavering light 
Developes on those walls the thousand dyes 
Of the vein'd marbles, which array their height. 
And from yon dome, (16) the lode-star of all eyes. 
Pour such an iris-glow as emulates the skies. 

LXXV. 

But gaze thou not on these ; though heaven's 

own hues 
In their soft clouds and radiant tracery vie ; 
Though tints, of sun-burnt glory, may suffuse 
Arch, column, rich mosaic : pass thou by 
The stately tombs, where eastern Ca;sars lie, 
Beneath their trophies ; pause not here, for 

know, 
A deeper source of all sublimity 
Lives in man's bosom, than the world can show. 
In nature or in art, above, around, below. 



118 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



LXXVI. 

Turn thou to mark (though tears may dim thy 

gaze) 
The steel-clad group before yon altar-stone ; 
Heed not, though gems and gold around it blaze, 
Those heads unhelm'd, those Isneeling forms 

alone, 
Thus bovv'd, look glorious here. The light is 

thrown 
Full from the shrine on one, a nation's lord, 
A sufferer !— but his task shall soon be done — 
E'en now, as Faith's mysterious cup is pour'd. 
See to that noble brow, peace, not of earth, re- 
stored ! 

LXXVII. 

The rite is o'er. The band of brethren part. 
Once — and hut once — to meet on earth again ! 
Each in the strength of a collected heart. 
To dale what man may dare — and know 't is 

vain 1 
The rite is o'er, and thou majestic fane ! 
The glory is departed from thy brow ! 
Be clothed with dust !— the Cliristian's farewell 

strain 
Hath died within thy walls ; thy Cross must bow; 
Thy kingly tombs be spoil'd; tliy golden shrines 

laid low! 

Lxxvni. 

The streets grow still and lonely — and the star, 
The last bright lingerer in the path of morn. 
Gleams faint; and in the very lap of war, 
As if young Hope with Twilight's rays were 

born. 
Awhile the city sleeps ; — her throngs, o'erworn 
With fears and watchings, to their homes retire ; 
Nor is the balmy air of day-spring torn 
With battle sounds ; (17) the winds in sighs ex- 
pire, 
And Quiet broods in mists, that veil the sunbeam's 
fire. 

LXXIX. 

The city sleeps ! — ay ! on the combat's eve, 
And by the scaffold's brink, and 'midst the swell 
Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve 
Thus from her cares. The brave have slumber'd 

well. 
And e'en the fearful, in their dungeon-cell, 
Chain'd between Life and Death ! — Such rest be 

thine. 
For conflicts wait thee still ! — Yet who can tell 
In that brief hour, how much of Heaven may 

shine 
Full on thy spirit's dream ! — Sleep, weary Con- 

stantine ! 

LXXX. 

Doth the blast rise?— the clouded East is red, 
As if a storm were gathering ; and I hear 
What seems like heavy rain-drops, or the tread. 
The soft and smother'd step, of those that fear 
Surprise from ambush'd foes. Hark ! yet more 

near 
It comes, a many-toned and mingled sound ; 
A rustling, as of winds where boughs are sear, 
A rolling as of wheels that shake the ground 
From far ; a heavy rush, like seas that burst their 

bound ! 

LXXXI. 

Wake, wake! They come from sea and shore, 

ascending 
In hosts your ramparts! Arm ye for the day ! 
Who now may sleep amidst thethunders rending. 
Through tower and wall, a path for their array ? 
Hark ! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey, 
With its wild voice to which the seas reply ! 
And the earth rocks beneath their engine's sway. 
And the far hills repeat their battle-cry. 
Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted 
sky I 



LXXXII. 

They fail not now, the generous band, that long 
Have ranged their swords around a falling 

throne ; 
Still in those fearless men the walls are strong, 
Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own ! • 
—Shall those high energies be vainly shown ? 
No ! from their towers Ih' invading tide is driven 
Back, like the Ked-Sea waves, when God had 

blown 
With his strong winds ! (18)— the dark-brow'd 

ranks are riven — ■ 
Shout, warriors of the cross !— for victory is of 

Heaven ! 

LXXXIII. 

Stand firm ! — Again the crescent host is rushing, 
And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep, 
With all their fires and darts, though blood is 

gushing 
Fast o'er their sides, as rivers to the deep. 
Stand firm ! — there yet is liope — th' ascent is 

steep. 
And from on high no shaft descends in vain ; 
— But those that fall swell up the mangled heap, 
In the red moat, the dying and the slain. 
And o'er that fearful bridge" th' assailants mount 



LXXXIV. 

Oh ! the dread mingling in that awful hour. 
Of all terrific sounds !— the savage tone 
Of the wild horn, the cannon's peal, the shower 
Of hissing darts, the crash of walls o'erthrown, 
The deep, dull tambour's beat !— man's voice 

alone 
Is there unheard ! Ye may not catch the cry 
Of trampled thousands — prayer, and shriek, and 

moan. 
All drown'd, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by. 
But swell the unheeded sum earth pays for victory I 

LXXXV. 

War-clouds have wrapt the city!— through their 

dun 
O'erloaded canopy, at times a blaze. 
As of an angry storm-pi'esaging sun. 
From the Greek fire shoots up ; (19) and lightning 

rays 
Flash, from the shock of sabres, through the 

haze, 
And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air! 
—Ay I this is in the compass of our gaze, — 
But fearful things, unknown, untold, are there, 
Workings of Wrath and Death, and Anguish, and 

Despair! 

LXXXVl. 

Woe, shame and woe! — A chief, a warrior flies, 
A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale ! 
— Oh God ! that nature's passing agonies 
Thus o'er the spark which dies not should pre- 
vail ! 
Yes! rend the arrow from thy shatter'd mail. 
And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa's fallen 

son ! (20) 
Fly swifter yet ! the javelins pour as hail ! 
— But there are tortures which thou canst not 
shun. 
The spirit is their prey :— thy pangs are but begun ! 

LXXXVII. 

Oh! happy in their homes, the noble dead ! 

The seal is set on their majestic fame ; 

Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they 

shed. 
Fate has no power to dim their stainless name: 
T/iey may not, in one bitter moment, shame 
Long glorious years ; from many a lofty stem 
Fall graceful flowers, and eagle-hearts grow 

tame. 
And stars drop, fading, from the diadem ; 
But the bright past is theirs— there is no change 

for them ! 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



119 



LXXXVIII. 

Where art thou, Constantine ?— Where Death is 

reaping 
His sevenfold harvest! Where the stormy light, 
Fast as th' artillery's thunderbolts are sweeping, 
Throws meteor-bursts o'er battle's noonday- 
night? 
Where the towers rock and crumble from their 

height. 
As to the earthquake, and the engines ply 
Like red Vesuvio ; and where human might 
Confronts all this, and still brave hearts beat 
high. 
While scymetars ring loud on shivering panoply. 

Lxxxrx. 

Where art thou, Constantine ?— Where christian 

blood 
Hath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain ! 
Where Faith and Valour perish in the flood, 
Whose billows, rising o'er their bosoms, gain 
Dark strength each moment : where the gallant 

slain 
Around the banner of the cross lie strew'd, 
Tliick as the vine-leaves on the autumnal plain ; 
Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued. 
And through the breach press on the o'erwlielming 

multitude. 

XC. 

Now is he battling 'midst a host alone. 
As the last cedar stems awhile the sway 
Ofmountain-storms, whose fury hath o'erthrovvn 
Its forest-brethren in their green array ! 
And he hath cast his purple robe away. 
With its imperial bearings ; that his sword 
An iron ransom from the chain may pay. 
And win, what haply Fate may yet accord, 
A soldier's death, the all now left an empire's lord ! 

XCI. 

Search for him now, where bloodiest lie the files 
Which once were men, the faithful and the 

brave ! 
Search for him tiow, where loftiest rise the piles 
Of shatter'd helms and shields, which could not 

save ; 
And crests and banners, never more to wave 
In the free winds of heaven ! — He is of those 
O'er whom the host may rush, the tempest rave. 
And the steeds trample, and the spearmen close. 
Yet wake them not!— so deep their long and last 

repose ! 

XCII. 

Woe to the vanquish'd ! thus it hath been still. 
Since Time's first march ! — Hark, hark, a peo- 
ple's cry ! 
Ay ! now the conquerors in the streets fulfil 
Their task of wrath! In vain the victims fly ; 
Hark ! now each piercing tone of agony 
Blends in the city's shriek ! — The lot is cast. 
Slaves, 'twas your choice, thus, rather thus, to 

die. 
Than where the warrior's blood flows warm and 
fast. 
And roused and mighty hearts beat proudly to the 
last! 

XCIII. 

Oh ! well doth freedom battle ! — Men have made. 
E'en 'midst their blazing roofs, a noble stand. 
And on the floors, where once their children 

play'd. 
And by the hearths, round which their house- 
hold band 
At evening met; ay! struggling hand to hand. 
Within the very chambers of their sleep. 
There have they taught the spoilers of the land. 
In chainless hearts what fiery strength lies deep. 
To guard free homes !— but ye ! kneel, tremblers ! 
kneel and weep! 



XCIV. 

'Tis eve— the storm hath died— the valiant rest 
Low on their shields ; the day's fierce work is 

done. 
And blood-stain'd seas and burning towers attest 
Its fearful deeds. An empire's race is run ! 
Sad, 'midst his glory, looks the parting sun 
Upon the captive city. Hark! a swell 
(Meet to proclaim Barbaric war-fields won) 
Of fierce triumphal sounds, that wildly tell. 
The Soldan comes within the Caesars' halls to 

dwell ! 

XCV, 

Yes ! with the peal of cymbal and of gong, 
Hecomes, the Moslem treads those ancient halls! 
But all is stillness there, as Death had long 
Been lord alone within those gorgeous walls. 
And half that silence of the grave appals 
The conqueror's lieart. Ay, thus with Triumph's 

hour, 
Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls 
A thought of those impervious clouds that lower 
O'er Grandeur's path, a sense of some far mightier 

Power ! 

XCVI. 

" The owl upon Afrasiab's towers hath sung 
Her watch-song, and around th' imperial throne 
The spider weaves his web!" (21) Still darkly 

hung 
That verse of omen, as a prophet's tone. 
O'er his flush'd spirit. Years on years have 

flown 
To prove its truth : kings pile their domes in air. 
That the coil'd snake "may bask on sculptured 

stone. 
And nations clear the forest, to prepare 
For the wild fox and wolf more stately dwellings 

there ! 

XCVII. 

But thou ! that on thy ramparts proudly dying, 
As a crown'd leader in such hours should die, 
Upon thy pyre of shiver'd spears art lying, 
With the heavens o'er thee for a canopy. 
And banners for thy shroud !— No tear, no sigh, 
Shall mingle with thy dirge; for thou art now 
Beyond vicissitude ! Lo ! rear'd on high, 
The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow ; 
But where no change can reach, there, Constan- 
tine, art thou! 

XCVIII. 

" After life's fitful fever, thou sleep'st well !" 
We may not mourn thee !— Sceptred chiefs, from 

whom 
The earth received her destiny, and fell 
Before them trembling— to a sterner doom 
Have oft been call'd. For them the dungeon's 

gloom. 
With its cold starless midnight, hath been made 
More fearful darkness, where, as in a tomb, 
Without a tomb's repose, the chain hath weigh'd 
Their very soul to dust, with each high power de- 

cay'd. 

XCIX. 

Or in the eye of thousands they have stood. 
To meet the stroke of Death— but not like thee ! 
From bonds and scafliblds hath appeal'd their 

blood, 
But thou didst fall unfetter'd, arm'd, and free, 
And kingly to the last !— And if it be. 
That, from the viewless world, whose marvels 

none 
Return to tell, a spirit's eye can see 
The things of earth; still may'st tliou hail the 

sun. 
Which o'er thy land shall dawn, when Freedom's 

fight is won ! 



120 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



And the hour comes, in storm! — A light is 

glanciiifj 
Far through the forest-god's Arcadian shades ! 
— 'Tis not the moonbeam, tremulously dancing, 
Where lone Alpheus bathes his haunted glades; 
A murmur, gathering power, the air pervades, 
Round dark Citharon, and by Delphi's steep ; 
— 'Tis not the song and lyre of Grecian maids, 
Nor pastoral reed that lulls the vales to sleep. 
Nor yet the rustling pines, nor yet the sounding 

deep ! 

CI. 

Arms glitter on the mountains, which, of old, 
Awoke to freedom's first heroic strain. 
And by the streams, once crimson as they roU'd 
The Persian helm and standard to the main ; 
And the blue waves of Salamis again 
Thrill to the trumpet; and the tombs reply 
With their ten thousand echoes, from each plain. 
Far as Plata;a's, where the mighty lie. 
Who crown'd so proudly there the bowl of liber- 
ty ! (22) 

cir. 

Bright land with glory mantled o'er by song! 
Land of the vision-peopled hills and streams, 
And fountains, whose deserted banks along, 
Still the soft air with inspiration teems ; 
Land of the graves, whose dwellers shall be 

themes 
To verse for ever ; and of ruin'd shrines 
That scarce look desolate beneath such beams, 
As bathe in gold thine ancient rocks and pines ! 
— When shall thy sons repose in peace beneath 

their vines'? 

CIIL 

Thou wert not made for bonds, nor shame, nor 

fear! 
— Do the hoar oaks and dark-green laurels wave 
O'er MantiniEa's earth ? — doth Pindus rear 
His snows, the sunbeam'and the storm to brave ? 
And is there yet on Marathon a grave ? 
And doth Eurotas lead his silvery line 
By Sparta's ruins ? — And shall man, a slave, 
Bow'd to the dust, amid such scenes repine ? 
— If e'er a soil was mark'd for Freedom's step— 'tis 
thine ! 

CIV. 

Wash from that soil the stains, with battle- 
showers ! 
— Beneath Sophia's dome the Moslem prays. 
The Crescent gleams amidst the olive-bowers. 
In the Comneni's halls (23) the Tartar sways: 
But not for long! — the spirit of those days. 
When the three hundred made their funeral pile 
Of Asia's dead, is kindling, like the rays 
Of thy rejoicing sun, when first his smile 
Warms the Parnassian rock, and gilds the Dalian 
isle. 

CV. 

If then 'tis given thee to arise in might. 
Trampling the scourge, and dashing down the 

chain, 
Pure be thy triumphs, as thy name is bright ! 
The cross of victory should not know a stain ! 
So may that faith once more supremely reign, 
Through which we lift our spirits from the dust ! 
And deem not, e'en when virtue dies in vain. 
She dies forsaken ; but repose our trust 
On Him whose ways are dark, unsearchable — but 

just. 



NOTES. 



Note 1. 

While IshmaeVs bow, SfC. 
The army of Mahomet the Second, at the siege of Constantinople, 
was thronged with fanatics of all sects and nations, who were not 
enrolled amongst the regular troops. The Sultan himself marched 



upon the city from Adrianople ; but his army must have been prin- 
cipally collected in the Asiatic provinces, which he had previously 

visited. 

Note 2. 

Bring wme, bring odours, ^c. 

Hue vina, et unguenta, et nimium breves 
Flores amcence ferre jube rosse. 

Hor. lib. ii. od. 3. 

Note 3- 

From the Seveii Towers, ^c. 
The Castle of the Seven Towers is mentioned in the Byzantine 
history, as early as the sixth century of the Christian era, as an edi- 
fice which contributed materially to the defence of Constantinople ; 
and it was the principal bulwark of the town on the coast of the 
Proponlis, in the latter periods of tlie empire. For a description of 
this building, see Fouquevilk's Travtls. 

Note 4. 

With its long inarch of sceptred imagery. 
An allusion to the Roman custom of carrying in procession, at 
the funerals of their great men, the images of their ancestors. 

Note 5. 

The Roman cast his glittering mail away. 
The following was the ceremony of consecration with which De- 
cius devoted himself in battle. He was ordered by Valerius, the 
pontifex maximus, to quit his military habit, and put on the robe he 
wore in the senate. Valerius then covered his head with a veil; 
commanded him to put forth his hand under his robe to his chin, 
and standing with both feet upon a javelin, to repeat these words: 
'* O Janus, Jupiter, Mars, Romulus, Belloua, and ye Lares and No- 
vensiles ! All ye heroes who dwell in heaven, and all ye gods who 
rule over us and our enemies, especially ye gods of hell ! I honour 
you, invoke you, and humbly entreat you to prosper the arms of the 
Romans, and to transfer all fear and terror from them to their ene- 
mies ; and I do, for the safety of the Roman people, and their 
legions, devote mj'self, and with myself the army and auxiliaries of 
the enemy, to the infernal gods, and the goddess of the earth." De- 
cius then, girding his robe around him, mounted his horse, and rode 
full speed into the thickest of the enemy's battalions. The Latins 
were,, for a while, thunderstruck at this spectacle; hut at length 
recovering themselves, they discharged a shower of darts, under 
which the consul fell. 

Note 6. 

■ Lo ! Christian pennons streaming 

Red o^er the waters ! ^c. 
See Gibbon's animated description of the arrival of five Christian 
ships, with men and provisions, for the succour of the besieged, not 
many days before the fall of Constantinople. — Decline and Fall of 
the Roman Empire^ vol. xii. p. 215. 

Note 7. 

.^s when the wind hath blown 

O^er Indian groves, ^c. 
The summits of the lofty rocks in the Camatic, particularly about 
the Ghauts, are sometimes covered with the bamboo tree, which 
grows in thick clumps, and is of such uncommon aridity, that in the 
sultry season of the year the friction occasioned by a strong dry 
wind will literally produce sparks of fire, which frequently setting 
the woods in a blaze, exhibit to the spectator stationed in a valley 
surrounded by rocks, a magnificent, though imperfect circle of fire. 
—Notes to KindersUy's Specimens of Hindoo Literature. 

Note 8, 

The snowy crown 

Of far Olympus^ &fC. 
Those who steer their westward course through the middle of the 
Propontis may at once descry the high lands of Thrace and Bithy- 
nia, and never lose sight of the lofty summit of Mount Olympus, 
covered with eternal snows. — Decline and Fall, SfC. vol, iii. p. 8. 

Note 9. 

Mohammed^s face 

Kindles beneath their aspect, S/-c. 

Mahomet IL was greatly addicted to the study of astrology. His 

calculations in this science led him to fix upon the morning of the 

29th of May as the fortunate hour for a general attack upon the city. 

Note 10 

Thy Georgian bride, SfC, 

Constantine Palsologus was betrothed to a Georgian princess ; 

and the very spring which witnessed the fall of Constantinople had 

been fixed upon as the time for conveying the imperial bride to that 

city. 

Note 11. 

Those men are strangers here. 
Many of the adherents of Constantine, in his last noble stand for 
the liberties, or rather the honour, of a falling empire, were foreign- 
ers and chiefly Italians, 

Note 12. 

Know^st thou the land, <^c. 
This and the next line are an almost literal translation from a 
beautiful song of Goethe's : 

Kennst du das land, wo die zitronen bluhn 
Mit dunkeln laub die gold orangen gluhn ? &c. 



HEMANS' EARLIER POEMS. 



121 



Note 13. 

The idea expressed in this stanza, is beautifully amplified in Schil- 
ler's poem *'Das Lied der Glocke." 

Note 14. 

Hath the Jiei-ce phantom^ S/-C. 
It is said to be a Greek superstition tliat the plag;ue is announced 
by the heavy roUiue: of an invisible cliariot, heard in the streets at 
midnight ; and also^by the appearance of a gigantic spectre, who 
summons the devoted person by name. 

Note 15. 

Ye smiled on banquets of despair, ^-c 

Many instances of such banquets, given and shared by persons 
resolved upon death, might be adduced from ancient history. That 
of Vibius Virius, at Capua, is amongst the most memorable. 

Note 16. 

Von domey the lode-star of all eyes. 

For a minute description of the marbles, jaspers, and porphyries, 
employed in the construction of St. Sophia, see The Decline and 
Fall, ^c, vol. vii. p. 120. 

Note 17. 



The assault of the city took place at day-break, and the Turks 
were strictly enjoined to advance in silence, which had also been 
commanded, on pain of death, during the preceding night. This 
circumstance is finely alluded tc by Miss Bailiie, iu her tragedy of 
Conslantine Palteologus : 

"Silent shall be the march: nor drum, nor tnimp, 

Nor clash of arms, shall to the watchful foe 

Our near approach betray : silent and soft. 

As the pard's velvet foot on Libya's sands, 

Slow stealing with crouch'd shoulders on her prey." 

Constantine Palxologus, Act iv. 

"The march and labour of thousands" must, however, as Gibbon 
observes, "have inevitably produced a strange confusion of dis- 
cordant clamours j which reached the ears ot the watchmen on the 
towers." 

Note 18. 

7%e dark-browed ranks are riven. 

** After a conflict of two hours, the Greeks still maintained and 
preserved their advantage," says Gibbon. The strenuous exertions 
of the Janizaries firet turned the fortune of the day. 

Note 19. 
From the Greek fire shoots up, fyc. 
"A circumstance that distinguishes the siege of Constantinople is 
the reunion of the ancient and modern artillery. The bullet and the 
battering-ram were directed against the same wall ; nor had the dis- 
covery of gunpowder superseded the use of the liquid and unextin- 
guishable fire." — Decline and Fall, ^c, vol. xii. p. 213. 

Note 20. 
And stanch the blood-drops, Gcnoa'^s fallm son ! 
" The immediate loss of Constantinople may be ascribed to the 
bullet, or arrow, which pierced the gauntlet of John Justiniana (a 
Genoese chief.) The sight of his blood, and exquisite pain, appalled 
the courage of the chief, whose arms and counsels were the firmest 
rampart of the city."— DecZi7ie and Fall, ^-c, vol. 2:ii. p. 229. 

Note 21. 

The owl upon Afrasiab'S towers hath sung 

Her watch-song, 8fC. 
Mahomet II., on entering, after his victory, the palace of the By- 
zantine emperors, was strongly impressed with the silence and deso- 
lation which reigned within its precincts. " A melancholy reflec- 
tion on the vicissitudes of human greatness forced itself on his 
mind, and he repeated an elegant distich of Persian poetry: 'The 
spider has wove his web in the imperial palace, and the owl hath 
sung her watch-song on the towers of Afrasiab.' " — Decline and 
Fall,^c.,yo\. xii. p. 240. 

Note 22. 

The bowl of liberty. 

One of the ceremonies by which the battle of Platcea was annually 
commemorated was, to crown with wine a cup called the Ji3wl of 
Liberty, which was afterwards poured forth in libation. 

Note 23. 

I7i the CcinneyiVs halls, ^-c. 
The Comneni were amongst the most distinguished of the fami- 
lies who filled the Byzantine throne in the declining years of the 
eastern empire. 

16 



BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST. 



'TwAs night in Babylon : yet many a beam 
Of lamps far-glitteriiif; from lier domes on high. 
Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates' stream. 
With the clear stars of that Clialdean sky, 
Whose azure knows no cloud : — each whisper'd 

sigh 
Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace- 
bowers 
Bore deepening tones of joy and melody. 
O'er an illumined wilderness of flowers ; 
And the glad city's voice went up from all her 
towers. 

But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall. 
Where, 'midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band ! 
High at the stately midnight festival, 
Belshazzar sat enthroned.— There Luxury'shand 
Had shower'd around all treasures that expand 
Beneath the burning East !— all gems that pour 
The sunbeams back ;— all sweets of many a land. 
Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore ; 
—But mortal pride look'd on, and still demanded 
more. 

With richer zest the banquet may be fraught, 
A loftier theme may swell th' exulting strain ! 
The Lord of nations spoke, — and forth were 

brought 
The spoils of Salem's devastated fane : 
Thrice holy vessels !— pure from earthly stain. 
And set apart, and sanctified to Him, 
Who deign'd within the oracle to reign, 
Keveal'd, yet shadow'd; making noon-day dim, 
To that most glorious cloud between thoCherubim. 

They came, and louder peal'd the voice of song. 
And pride flash'd brighter from the kindling eye. 
And He who sleeps not heard th' elated throng, 
In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy 
The Rock of Zion !— Fill the nectar high. 
High in the cups of consecrated gold I 
And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die. 
And bid the censers of the Temple hold 
Offerings to Babel's gods, the mighty ones of old I 

Peace ! — is it but a phantom of the brain, 
Thus shadow'd forth the senses to appal, 
Yon fearful vision ? — Who shall gaze again 
T'o search its cause ? — Along the illumined wall. 
Startling, yet riveting the eyes of all. 
Darkly it moves, — a hand, a human hand. 
O'er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall 
In silence tracing, as a mystic wand. 
Words all unknown, the tongue of some far dis- 
tant land. 

There are pale cheeks around the regal board. 
And quivering lips and whispers deep and low. 
And fitful starts !— the wine in triumph pour'd, 
Untasted foams, the song hath ceased to flow. 
The waving censer drops to eartli — and lo ! 
The King of Men, the Ruler, girt with might, 
Trembles before a shadow !— Say not so ! 
— The child of dust, with guilt's foreboding sight. 
Shrinks from the Dread Unknown, th' avenging 
Infinite ! 

But haste ye ! — bring Chaldea's gifted seers, 
Tlie men of prescience !— haply to their eyes. 
Which track the future through the rolling 

spheres. 
Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies. 
They come — the readers of tlie midnight skies. 
They that give voice to visions— but in vain ! 
Still wrapt in clouds tlie awful secret lies, 
It hath no language 'midst the starry train. 
Earth has no gifted tongue Heaven's mysteries to 
explain. 

Then stood forth one, a child of other sires, 
And other inspiration I — One of those 
Who on the willows hung their captive lyres. 
And sat, and wept, where Babel's river flows. 
His eye was bright, and yet the deep repose 



122 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Of his pale features half o'eravved the mind, 
And imaged forth a soul, whose joys and woes 
Were of a loftier stamp than aught assign'd 
To earth; a being seal'd and sever'd from nian- 
isind. 

Yes! — what was earth to him, whoso spirit pass'd 
Time's utmost bounds ? — on whose unshrinliing 

sight 
Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast 
Tlieir full resplendence ?— Majesty and might 
Were in his dreams ; — for him the veil of light 
Shrouding heaven's inmost sanctuary and 

throne, 
The curtain of th' unutterably bright 
Was raised!— to him, in fearful splendour shown, 
Ancient of days ! e'en thou niad'st thy dread pre- 
sence known. 

He spoke ;— the shadows of the things to come 
Pass'd o'er his soul: — " O King, elate in pride! 
God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom, 
The one, the living God, by thee defied ! 
He in whose balance earthly lords are tried. 
Hath weigh'd, and found thee wanting. 'T is 

decreed 
The conqueror's liands thy kingdom shall divide. 
The stranger to thy throne of power succeed! 
The days are full, they come ; — the Persian and 

the Mode !" 

There fell a moment's thrilling silence round, 
A breathless pause ! the hush of hearts that beat 
And limbs that quiver :,— is there not a sound, 
A gathering cry, a tread of hurrying feet? 
— 'T was but some echo in the crowded street, 
Of far-heard revelry ; the shout, the song. 
The measured dance to music wildly sweet, 
That speeds the stars their joyous course along ; — 
Away ! nor let a dream disturb the festal throng ! 

Peace yet again !— Hark ! steps in tumtilt flying. 
Steeds rushing on as o'er a battle-field! 
The shout of hosts exulting or defying, 
The press of multitudes that strive or yield ! 
And the loud, startling clash of spear and shield. 
Sudden as earthquake's burst I — and, blent with 

these. 
The last wild shriek of those whose doom is 

seal'd 
In their full mirth !— all deepening on the breeze. 
As the long stormy roar of far advancing seas! 

And nearer yet the trumpet's blast is swelling, 
Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cry ! 
And lo ! the spoiler in the regal dwelling. 
Death bursting on the halls of revelry ! 
Ere one bright star be faded from the sky. 
Bed flames, like banners, wave from dome and 
fane. 
Empire is lost and won, Belshazzar with the slain. 

Fallen is the golden city ! in the dust 
Spoil'd of her crown, dismantled of her state. 
She that hath made the Strength of Towers her 

trust. 
Weeps by her dead, supremely desolate ! 
She that beheld the nations at her gate, 
Thronging in homage, shall be call'd no more 
Lady of kingdoms! — Who shall mourn her fate ? 
Her guilt is full, her march of triumph o'er; — 
— What widow'd land shall now her widowhood 
deplore ? 

Sit thou in silence ! Thou that wert enthroned 
On many waters ! thou, whose augurs read 
The language of the planets, and disown'd 
The mighty name it blazons ! — Veil thy head. 
Daughter of Babylon ! the sword is red 
From thy destroyers' harvest, and the yoke 
Is on thee, O most proud ! — for thou hast said, 
" I am, and none beside !" — Th' Eternal spoke, 
Thy glory was a spoil, thine idol-gods were broke. 



But go thou forth, O Israel ! wake ! rejoice ! 
Be clothed with strength, as in thine ancient 

day! 
Renew the sound of harps, th' exulting voice. 
The mirth of timbrels ! — loose the chain, and 

say 
God hath redeem'd his people ! — from decay 
The silent and the trampled shall arise ; 
— Awake ; put on thy beautiful array, 
Oh long-forsaken Zion ! to the skies 
Send up on every wind thy choral melodies ! 

And lift thy head ! — Behold thy sons returning, 
Redeem'd from exile, ransom'd from the chain ! 
Light hath revisited the house of mourning ; 
She that on Judah's mountain wept in vain 
Because her children were not— dwells again 
Girt with the lovely ! — through thy streets once 

more, 
City of God ! shall pass the bridal train, 
And the bright lamps their festive radiance pour, 
And the triumphal hymns the joy of youth restore. 



THE BOON OF MEMORY. 



Many things answered me. Manfred. 



T GO, I go! — and must mine image fade 

Prom the green spots wherein my childhood play'd, 

By my own streams ? 
Must u^y life part from each familiar place, 
As a bird's song, that leaves the woods no trace 

Of its lone themes? 

Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget 
The welcomes there, the hours when we have met 

In grief or glee ? 
All the sweet counsel, the communion high, 
Tlie kindly words of trust, in days gone by, 

Pour'd full and free ? 



A boon, a talisman, O Memory ! give. 

To shrine my name in hearts where I would live 

For evermore ! 
Bid the wind speak of me where I have dwelt. 
Bid the stream's voice, of all my soul hath felt, 

A thought restore ! 



In the rich rose, whose bloom I loved so well, 
In the dim brooding violet of the dell, 

Set deep that thought ! 
And let the sunset's melancholy glow. 
And let the spring's first whisper, faint and low, 

With me be fraught ! 

And Memory answer'd me: — "Wild wish and 

vain ! 
I have no hues the loveliest to detain 

In the, heart's core. 
The place they held in bosoms all their own. 
Soon with new shadows fill'd, new flowers o'er- 
grown. 
Is theirs no more !" 

Hast thou such povi^er, O Love? — And Love replied, 
" It is not mine ! Pour out thy soul's full tide 

Of hope and trust. 
Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain — 
'Tis but to write, with the heart's fiery rain. 

Wild words on dust !" 

Song, is the gift with thee?— I ask a lay. 
Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass avi'ay 

From the still breast ; 
Fill'd with a tone — oh ! not for deathless fame, 
But a sweet haunting murmur of my name, 

Where it would rest. 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



123 



And Song made iinswer— " It is not in me, 
Tliough caird immortal ; tliougli my gifts may be 

All but divine. 
A place of lonely brightness I can give ; — 
A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst 
live — 

This is not mine !" 

Death, Death! wilt thou the restless wish fulfil ? 
And Death, the Strong One, spoke :— " I can but 
still 



Each vain regret. 
What if forgotten ? — All thy soul would crave. 
Thou too, within the mantle of the grave. 

Wilt soon forget." 

Then did my heart in lone faint sadness die, 
As from all nature's voices one reply, 

But one, was given : — 
" Earth has no heart, fond dreamer! with a tone 
To send thee back the spirit of thine own — 

Seek it in Heaven." 



A DRAMATIC FOEM. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The history of Spain records two instances of 
the sevwe and self-devoting heroism, which forms 
the subject of the following xlramatic poem. The 
first of these occurred at the siege of Tarifa, which 
was defended in 1294, for Sanclio, King of Castile, 
during the rebellion of his brother, Don Juan, by 
Guzman, surnamed the Good.* The second is re- 
lated of Alonzo Loppz de Te.\eda, who, until his 
garrison had been utterly disabled by pestilence, 
maintained the city of Zamora for the children of 
Don Pedro the Cruel, against the forces of Hen- 
rique of Trastamara.t 

Impressive as were the circumstances which 
distinguished both these memorable sieges, it ap- 
peared to the author of the following pages, that a 
deeper interest, as well as a stronger colour of 
nationality, might be imparted to the scenes in 
which she has feebly attempted " to describe high 
passions and high actions;" by connecting a reli- 
gious feeling with the patriotism and high-minded 
loyalty which had thus been proved " faithful unto 
death," and by surrounding her ideal dramatis 
personal with recollections derived from the heroic 
legends of Spanish chivalry. She has, for this 
reason, employed the agency of imaginary charac- 
ters, and fixed upon " Valencia del Cid" as the 
scene to give them 

"A local habitation and a name." 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 

Alvar Gofiz.kLET,. ■. .Oovernor of Valencia. 

ALPHONZO ) rr- Q, „„ 

r, „,„^ i His Sons. 

Carlos \ 

Hernandez j9 Priest. 

A ( jS Moorish Prince, Chief of 

ABDULLAH ^ ^j^^ ^,^^^y liesicfring Valencia. 

Garcias A Spanish Knight. 

Elmina Wife to Gonzalez. 

XiJiENA Her Daughter. 

Theresa. jSa Mtendant. 

Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants, ^c. 

*■ See Qiiinlana's ' Vidas de Espanr.Ies celF-Iires,' p. 53. 
t See the Preface to Southej '5 ■ Chronicle of the Cid.' 



Scene — Room in a Palace of Valencia. 
Ximena singing to a lute. 



" Thou hast not been with a festal throng. 

At the pouring of the wine; 
Men bear not from the Hall of Song, 
A mien so dark as thine ! 
— There's blood upon thy shield, 
There's dust upon thy plume, 
— Thou hast brought from some disastrous field, 
That brow of wrath and gloom!" 

" And is there blood upon my shield? 

— Maiden ! it well may be ! 
We have sent the streams from our battle-field. 
All darken'd to the sea ! 
We have given the founts a stain, 
'Midst their woods of ancient pine; 
And the ground is wet — but not with rain. 
Deep-dyed— but not with wine ! 

"The ground is wet — but not with rain — 

We have been in war array. 
And the noblest blood of Christian Spain 
Hath bathed her soil to-day. 
I have seen the strong man die. 
And the stripling meet his fate. 
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by. 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait. 

" In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait 
There are helms and lances cleft ; 
And they that moved at morn elate 
On a bed of heath are left ! 
There's many a fair young face. 
Which the war-steed hath gone o'er; 
At many a board there is kept a place 
For those that come no more !" 

" Alas! for love, for woman's breast. 

If woe like this must be ! 
— Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle crest. 
And a wliite plume waving free? 
Witli his proud quick-flashing eye, 
And his mien of knightly state? 
Doth he cf)nie from where the swords flash'd high, 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait ?" 

"In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait 

I saw and niark'd him well ; 
For nobly on his steed he sate. 
When the pride of manhood fell ! 
— But it is not youth which turns 
From the field of spears again ; 
For the boy's high heart too wildly burns, 
Till it rests amidst the slain !" 



124 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



" Thou canst not say that he lies low, 

The lovely and the brave; 
Oh ! none couhl look on his joyous brow, 
And think upon the grave ! 
Dark, dark prrchaiicc llio day 
Hatli been \\\\\\ valoiu's fate. 
But Ac is on his homeward way, 
From the lloncesvalles' Strait." 

" There is dust upon his joyous brow, 

And o'er his graceful head ; 
And the war-horse will not wake him now, 
Though it bruise his greensward bed! 
— 1 have seen the stripling die, 
And the strong man meet his fate, 
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by. 
In the Koncesvalles' Strait !" 

Elmina enters. 

Elmina. Your songs are not like those of other 
days. 
Mine own Ximena !— VVl)ere is now the young 
And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once 
Brealh'd in your spring-like melodies, and woke 
Joy's echo from all hearts ? 

Ximena. My mother, this 

Is not the free air of our mountain-wilds ; 
And these are not the halls, wherein my voice 
First pour'd those gladdening strains. 

Elmina. Alas ! thy heart 

(I see it well) doth sicken for the pure 
Free-wandering breezes of the joyous hills. 
Where thy young brothers, o'er the rock and heath, 
Bound in glad boyhood, e'en as torrent-streams 
Leap brightly from the heights. Had we not been 
Within these walls thus suddenly begirt. 
Thou wouldst have track'd ere now, with step as 

light. 
Their wild wood-paths. 

Ximena. I would not but have shared 

These hours of woe and peril, though the deep 
And solemn feelings wakening at their voice. 
Claim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves. 
And will not blend with mirth. The storm doth 

hush 
All floating whispery sound, all bird-notes wild 
O' th' summer forest, filling earth and heaven 
With its own awful music. — And 'tis well ! 
Should not a hero's child be train'd to hear 
The trumpet's blast unstartled, and to look 
In the fix'd face of Death without dismay ? 

Elmina. Woe! woe! that aught so gentle and 
so young 
Should thus be'call'd to stand i' the tempest's path, 
And bear the token and the hue of death 
On a bright soul so soon! I had not shrunk 
From mine own lot, but thou, my child, shouldst 

move 
As a light breeze of heaven, through summer- 
bowers. 
And not o'er foaming billows. We are fall'n 
On dark and evil days ! 

Ximena. Ay, days that wake 

All to their tasks! — Youth may not loiter now 
In the green walks of spring ; and womanhood 
Is snmmon'd unto conflict^, heretofore 
The lot of warrior souls. i?ut we will take 
Our toils upon us nobly! Strength is born 
In the deep silence of long-sutfering hearts ; 
Not amidst joy. 

Elmina. Hast thou some secret woe, 

That thus thou speak'st ? 

Ximena. What sorrow should be mine. 

Unknown to thee ? 

Elmina. Alas ! the baleful air 

Wherewith the pestilence in darkness walks 
Through the devoted city, like a blight 
Amidst the rose-tints of thy cheek hath fall'n, 
And wrought an early withering!— Thou hast 

cross'd 
The paths of Death, and minister'd to those 
O'er whom his shadow rested, till thine eye 
Hath changed its glancing sunbeam for a still. 
Deep, solemn radiance, and thy brow hath caught 
A wild and high expression, which at times 



Fades unto desolate calmness, most unlike 
What youth's bright mien should wear. My gentle 

child ! 
I look on thee in fear ! 

Ximena. Thou hast no cause 

To fear for me. When the wild clash of steel, 
And the deep tambour, and the heavy step 
Of armed men, break on our morning dreams; 
When, hour by hour, the noble and the brave 
Are falling round us, and we deem it much 
I'o give them funeral rites, and call them blest 
If the good sword, in its own stormy hour. 
Hath done its work upon them, ere disease 
Had chill'd their fiery blood; — it is no time 
For the light mien wherewith, in happier hours. 
We trod the woodland mazes, when young leaves 
Were whispering in the gale. — My Father comes — 
Oh I speak of me no more. I would not shade 
His princely aspect with a thought less high 
Than his proud duties claim. 

Gonzalez enters. 

Elmina. My noble lord ! 

Welcome from this day's toil ! — It is the hour 
Whose shadows, as they deepen, bring repose 
Unto all weary men ; and vi'ilt not thou 
Free thy mail'd bosom from the corselet's vs^eight, 
To rest at fall of eve? 

Gonzalez. There may be rest 

For the tired peasant when the vesper-bell 
Doth send him to his cabin, and beneath 
His vine and olive he may sit at eve. 
Watching his children's sport : but unto Aim 
Who keeps the watch-place on the mountain 

height, 
When Heaven lets loose the storms that chasten 

realms 
— Who speaks of rest 7 

Ximena. My father, shall I fill 

The wine-cup for thy lips, or bring the lute 
Whose sounds thou loved ? 

Gonzalez. If there be strains of power 

To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn 
May cast off nature's feebleness, and hold 
Its proud career unshackled, dashing down 
Tears and fond thoughts to earth ; give voice to 

those ! 
I have need of such, Ximena ! we must hear 
No melting music now. 

Ximena. I know all high 

Heroic ditties of the elder time. 
Sung by the mountain-Christians,(l) in the holds 
Of th' everlasting hills, whose snows yet bear 
Theprint of Freedom's step; and all wild strains 
Wherein the dark serranos* teach the rocks 
And the pine forests deeply to resound 
The praise of later champions. Wouldst thou hear 
The war-song of thine ancestor, the Cid? 

Gonzalez. Ay, speak of him, for in that name is 
pov^'er 
Such as might rescue kingdoms! Speak of him ! 
We are his children ! They that can look back 
r th' annals of their house on such a name. 
How should they take dishonour by the hand. 
And o'er the threshold of their fathers' halls 
First lead her as a guest? 

Elmina. Oh, why this ? 

How my heart sinks! 

Gonzalez. It must not fail thee yet, 

Daughter of heroes! — thine inheritance 
Is strength to meet all conflicts. Thou canst 

number 
In thy long line of glorious ancestry 
Men, the bright offering of whose blood hath made 
The ground it bathed e'en as an altar whence 
High thoughts shall rise for ever. Bore they not, 
'Midst flame and sword, their witness of the Cross, 
With its victorious inspiration girt 
As with a conqueror's robe, till th' infidel 
O'erawed, shrank backbeforethem?— Ay, the earth 
Doth call them martyrs, but their agonies 
Were of a moment, tortures whose brief aim 
Was to destroy, within whose powers and scope 



* " Serranos," mountaineers. 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



125 



Lay naught but dust— And earth doth call thein 

martyrs I 
Why, Heaven but claim'd their blood, their lives, 

and not 
The things which grow as tendrils round their 

hearts ; 
No, not their children ! 

Elmina. Mean'st thou? — know'st thou aught ? 
I cannot utter it — My sons ! my sons ! 
Is it of them?— Oh ! wouldst thou speak of them? 

Onnzalez. A mother's heart diviueth but too well ! 

Elmina. Speak, I adjure thee ! — I can bear it all. 
— Where are my children ? 

Oonzalez. In the Moorish camp 

Whose lines have girt the city. 

Ximena. But they live ? 

— All is not lost, my mother ! 

Elmina. Say, they live! 

Oonzalez. Elmina, still they live. 

Elmina. But captives ! — Tliey 

Whom my fond heart had imaged to itself 
Bounding from clilf to cliff amidst the wilds 
Where the rock-eagle seem'd not more secure 
In its rejoicing freedom ! — And my boys 
Are captives with the Moor ! — Oh ! how was this ? 

Oonzalez. Alas ! our brave Alphonso, in the pride 
Of boyish daring, left our mountain-halls, 
With his young brother, eager to behold 
The face of noble war. Thence on their way 
Were the rash wanderers captured. 

Elmina. 'T is enough. 

— And when shall they be ransom'd ? 

Oonzalez. There is ask'd 

A ransom far too high. 

Elmina. What ! have we wealth 

Which might redeem a monarch, and our sons 
The while wear fetters? — Take thou all for them. 
And we will cast our worthless grandeur from us. 
As 'twere a cumbrous robe ! — Why, thou art one 
To whose high nature pomp hath "ever been 
But as the plumage to a warrior's helm, 
Worn or thrown off as lightly. And for me. 
Thou know'st not how serenely I could take 
The peasant's lot upon me, so my heart. 
Amidst its deep affections undisturb'd. 
May dwell in silence. 

Ximena. Father ! doubt thou not 

But we will bind ourselves to poverty. 
With glad devotedness, if this, but this. 
May win them back.— Distrust us not, my father ! 
We can bear all things. 

Oonzalez. Can ye bear disgrace ? 

Ximena. We were not born for this. 

Oonzalez. No, thou sayest well ! 

Hold to that lofty faith —My wife, my child ! 
Hath earth no treasures richer than the gems 
Torn from her secret caverns ? — If by them 
Chains may be riven, then let the captive spring 
Rejoicing to the light! — But he, for whom 
Freedom and life may but be worn with shame. 
Hath naught to do, save fearlessly to tix 
His steadfast look on the majestic heavens, 
And proudly die ! 

Elmina. Gonzalez, w/io must die ? 

Oonzalez (hurriedly). They on whose lives a fear- 
ful price is set, 
But to be paid by treason ! — Is't enough ? 
Or must I yet seek words? 

Elmina. That look saith more ! 

Thou canst not mean 

Oonzalez. I do : why dwells there not 

Power in a glance to speak it ?— They must die ! 
They — must their names be told — Oar sons must die 
Unless I yield the city ! 

Ximena. Oh! lookup! 

My mother, sink not thus ! — Until the grave 
Shut from our sight its victims, there is hope. 

Elmina {in a low voice). Whose knell was in the 
breeze ! 

— No, no, not theirs ! 
Whose was the blessed voice that spoke of hope? 
— And there is hope ! — I will not be subdued — 
I will not hear a whisper of despair ! 
For Nature is all-powerful, and her breath 
Moves like a quickening spirit o'er the depths 



Within a father's heart.— Thou too, Gonzalez, 
Wilt tell me there is hope ! 

Gonzalez {solemnly.) Hope but in him 

Who bade the patriarch lay his fair young son 
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice, and when 
The bright steel quiver'd in the father's hand 
Just raised to strike, sent forth his awful voice 
Through the still clouds, and on the breathless air. 
Commanding to withhold !— Earth has no hope : 
It rests with him. 

Elmina. ThoJL canst not tell me this ! 

Thou father of my sons, within whose hands 
Doth lie thy children's fate. 

Oonzalez. If there have been 

Men in whose bosoms Nature's voice hath made 
Its accents as the solitary sound 
Of an o'erpowering torrent, silencing 
Th' austere and yet divine remonstrances 
Whisper'd by faith and honour, lift thy hands. 
And, to that Heaven, which arms the brave with 

strength. 
Pray that the father of thy sons may ne'er 
Be thus found wanting ! 

Elmina. Then their doom is seal'd ! 

Thou wilt not save thy children ? 

Oonzalez. Hast thou cause. 

Wife of my youth, to deem it lies within 
The bounds of possible things, that I should link 
My name to that word— traitor? They that sleep 
On their proud battle-fields, thy sires and mine, 
Died not for this ! 

Elmina. Oh. cold and hard of heart ! 

Thou shouldst be born for empire, since thy soul 
Thus lightly from all human bonds can free 
Its haughty flight !— Men I men ! too much is yours 
Of vantage; ye, that with a sonnd, a breath, 
A shadow, thus can fill the desolate space 
Of rooted-up affections, o'er whose void 
Our yearning hearts must wither ! — So it is. 
Dominion must be won I— Nay, leave me not — 
My heart is bursting, and 1 7nust be heard ! 
Heaven hath given power to mortal agony, 
As to the elements in their hour of might 
And mastery o'er creation ! — Who shall dare 
To mock that fearful strength ?— I mi^st be heard ! 
Give me my sons ! 

Oonzalez. That they may live to hide 

With covering hands th' indignant flush of shame 
On their young brows, when men shall speak of 

him 
They cali'd their father !— Was the oath, whereby. 
On th' altar of my faith, I bound myself. 
With an unswerving spirit to maintain 
This free and Christian city for my God 
And for my king, a writing traced on sand ? 
That passionate tears should wash it from the 

earth, 
Or e'en the life-drops of a bleeding heart 
Efface it, as a billow sweeps away 
Tlie last light vessel's wake?— Then never more 
Let man's deep vows be trusted !— though enforce4 
By all th' appeals of high remembrances. 
And silent claims o' th'" sepulchres, wherein 
His fathers with their stainless glory sleep. 
On their good swords! Think'st thou I feel no 

pangs? 
He that hath given me sons, doth know the heart 
Whose treasures he recalls. — Of this no more. 
'Tis vain. I tell thee that th' inviolate cross 
Still, from our ancient temples, must look up 
Through the blue heavens of Spain, though at its 

foot 
I perish, with my race. Thou darest not ask 
That I, the son of warriors— men wlio died 
To fix it on that proud supremacy — 
Should tear the sign of our victorious faith 
From its high place of sunbeams, for the Moor 
In impious joy to trample! 

Elmina. Scorn me not ! 

In mine extreme of misery I — Thou art strong — 
Thy heart is not as mine. My brain grows wild ; 
I know not what I ask ! — And yet 't were but 
Anticipating fate — since it must fall. 
That cross ■mu.it fall at last ! There is no power. 
No hope within this city of the grave, 



126 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



To keep its place on high. Her sultry air 
Breathes heavily of death,, her warriors sink 
Beneath their ancient banners, ere the Moor 
Hath bent his bow against them ; for the shaft 
Of pestilence flies more swiftly to its mark, 
Thau the arrow of the desert. Ev'n the skies 
O'erhaiig the desolate splendour of her domes 
With an ill omen's aspect, shaping forth. 
From the dull clouds, wild menacing forms and 

signs 
Foreboding ruin. Man might be withstood, 
But who shall cope with famine and disease, 
When leagued with armed foes ! — Where now the 

aid. 
Where the long-promised lances of Castile ? 
— We are forsaken, in our utmost need. 
By heaven and earth forsaken ! 

Gonzalez. If this be, 

(And yet I will not deem it) we must fall 
As men that in severe devotedness 
Have chosen their part and bound themselves to 

death. 
Through high conviction that their suffering land. 
By the free blood of martyrdom alone. 
Shall call deliverance down. 

Elmina. Oh ! 1 have stood 

Beside thee through the beating storms of life, 
With the true heart of unrepining love. 
As the poor peasant's mate doth cheerily 
In the parch'd vineyard, or the harvest-field, 
Bearing her part, sustain with him the heat 
And burden of the day. But now the hour. 
The heavy hour is come, when human strength 
Sinks down, a toil-worn pilgrim, in the dust. 
Owning that woe is mightier ! — Spare me yet 
This bitter cup, my husband ! — Let not her. 
The mother of the lovely, sit and mourn 
In her unpeopled home, a broken stem. 
O'er its fallen roses dying 1 

Oonzalez. Urge me not, 

Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been 

found 
Worthy a brave man's love, oh! urge me not 
To guilt, which, through the mist of blinding 

tears, 
In its own hues thou seest not ! — Death may scarce 
Bring aught like this ! 

Elmina. All, all thy gentle race. 

The beautiful beings that around thee grew. 
Creatures of sunshine! Wilt thou doom them all? 
— She, too, thy daughter — doth her smile unmark'd 
Pass from thee, with its radiance, day by day ? 
Shadows are gathering round her — seest thou not? 
The misty dimness of the spoiler's breath 
Hangs o'er her beauty, and the face which made 
The summer of our hearts, now doth but send. 
With every glance, deep bodings through the soul. 
Telling of early fate. 

Gonzalez. I see a change 

Far nobler on her brow! — She is as one, 
Who, at the trumpet's sudden call, hath risen 
From the gay banquet, and in scorn cast down 
The wine-cup, and the garland, and the lute. 
Of festal hours, for the good spear and helm, 
Beseeming sterner tasks. — Her eye hath lost 
The beam which laughed upon th' awakening 

heart. 
E'en as morn breaks o'er earth. But far within 
Its full dark orb, a light hath sprung, whose source 
Lies deeper in the soul. — And let tjfie torch 
Which but illumed the glittering pageant, fade ! 
The altar-flame, i' th' sanctuary's recess. 
Burns quenchless, being of heaven!— She hath 

put on 
Courage, and faith, and generous constancy. 
Ev'n as a breastplate.— Ay, men look on her. 
As she goes forth serenely to her tasks. 
Binding the warrior's wounds, and bearing fresh 
Cool draughts to fever'd lips; they look on her. 
Thus moving in her beautiful array 
Of gentle fortitude, and bless the fair 
Majestic vision, and unmurmuring turn 
Unto their heavy toils. 

Elmina. And seest thou not 

In that high faith and strong collectedness, 
A fearful inspiration l—Thcy have cause 



To tremble, who behold th' unearthly light 
Of high, and, it may be, prophetic thought. 
Investing youth with grandeur !— From the grave 
It rises, on whose shadowy brink thy child 
Waits but a father's hand to snatch her back 
Into the laughing sunshine.— Kneel with me, 
Ximena, kneel beside me, and implore 
That which a deeper, more prevailing voice 
Than ours doth ask, and will not be denied ; 
— His'children's lives ! 

Ximena. Alas ! this may not be. 

Mother !— I cannot. {Exit Ximena. 

Gonzalez. My heroic child ! 

— A terrible sacrifice thou claim'st, O God ! 
From creatures in whose agonizing hearts 
Nature is strong as death. 

Elviina. Is't thus in thine? 

Away ! — what time is given thee to resolve 
On ? — what I cannot utter !— Speak ! thou know'st 
Too well what I would say. 

Gonzalez. Until— ask not ! 

The time is brief. 

Elmina. Thou said'st — I heard not light — 

Gonzalez. The time is brief. 

Elmina. What ! must we burst all ties 

Wherewith the thrilling chords of life are twined ; 
And, for this task's fulfilment, can it be 
That man, in his cold heartlessness, hath dared 
To number and to mete us forth the sands 
Of hours, nay, moments? — Why, the sentenced 

wretch. 
He on whose soul there rests a brother's blood 
Poui'd forth in slumber, is allow'd more time 
To wean his turbulent passions from the world 
His presence doth pollute ! — It is not thus ! 
We must have time to school us. 

Gonzalez, We have but 

To bow the head in silence, when _Heaven's voice 
Calls back the things we love. 

Elmina. Love ! Love !— there are soft smiles 
and gentle words, 
And there are faces, skilful to put on 
The look we trust in — and 'tis mockery all ! 
— A faithless mist, a desert-vapour, wearing 
The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat 
The thirst that semblance kindled ! — There is none 
In all this cold and hollow world, no fount 
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within 
A mother's heart. — It is but pride, wherewith 
To his fair son the father's eye doth turn 
Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks, 
The bright glad creature springing in his path, 
But as the heir of his great name, the young 
And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long 
Shall bear his trophies well.— And this is love ! 
This is mail's love ! — What marvel 1—you ne'er 

made 
Your breast the pillow of his infancy, 
While to the fullness of your heart's glad heavings 
His fair cheek rose and fell; and his bright hair^ 
Waved softly to your breast ! — You ne'er kept 

watch 
Beside him, till the last pale star had set, 
And morn, all dazzling, as in triumpli, broke 
On your dim weary eye ; not yonrs the face 
Which early faded through fond care for him, 
Hung o'er his sleep, and duly as Heaven's light. 
Was there to greet his wakening ! Yon ne'er 

smoothed 
His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest. 
Caught his least whisper, when his voicefrom yours 
Had learn 'd soft utterance ; press'd your lips to his. 
When fever parch'd it ; hush'd his wayward cries. 
With patient, vigilant, never- wearied love ! 
No ! these are woman's tasks ! — In these her youth, 
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart. 
Steal from her all unmark'd !— My boys ! my boys ! 
Hath vain affection borne with all for this? 
— Why were ye given me ? 

Gonzalez. Is there strength in man 

Thus to endure ?— That thou couldst read, thro' all 
Its depths of silent agony, the heart 
Thy voice of woe dotli rend ! 

Elmina. Thy heart !—t/t?/ heart !— Away ! it feels 
not nov)J 
But an hour comes to tame the mighty man 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



127 



Unto the infant's weakness ; nor shall Heaven 
Spare you that bitter chastening! — May you live 
To be alone, when loneliness doth seem 
Most heavy to sustain ! — For me, my voice 
Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon 
With all forgotten sounds; my quiet place 
Low with my lovely ones, and we shall sleep, 
Though kings lead armies o'er us ; we shall sleep, 
Wrapt in earth's covering mantle! you the while 
Shall sit within your vast, forsaken halls, 
And hear the wild and melancholy winds 
Moan through their drooping banners, never more 
To wave above your race. Ay, then call up 
Shadows— dim phantoms from ancestral tombs, 
But all — all glorious — conquerors, chieftains, kings 
— To people that cold void!— And when the 

strength 
Prom your right arm hath melted, when the blast 
Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more 
A flery wakening ; if at last you pine 
For the glad voices, and the bounding steps, 
Once through your home re-echoing, and the clasp 
Of twining arms, and all the joyous light 
Of eyes that laugh'd with youth, and made your 

board 
A place of sunshine ; — When those days are come. 
Then, in your utter desolation, turn 
To the cold world, the smiling, faithless world. 
Which hath swept past you long, and bid it quench 
Your soul's deep thirst with fame ! immortal fame ! 
Fame to the sick of heart!— a gorgeous robe, 
A crown of victory, unto him that dies 
I' th' burning waste, for water ! 

Oonzalez. This from thee ! 

Now the last drop of bitterness is pour'd. 
Elmina — I forgive thee ! \^Exit Elmina. 

Aid me. Heaven ! 
From whom alone is power! — Oh! thou hast set 
Duties, so stern of aspect, in my path. 
They almost, to my startled gaze, assume 
The hue of things less hallow'd ! Men have sunk 
Unblamed beneath such trials! — Doth not He 
Who made us, know the limits of our strength? 
My wife ! my sons! — Away! I must not pause 
To give my heart one moment's mastery thus! 

\_Exit Gonzalez. 

Scene — The Msle of a Gothic Church. 

Hernandez, Garcias, and others. 

Hernandez. The rites are closed. Now, valiant 
men, depart, 
Each to his place — I may not say, of rest; 
Your faithful vigils for your sons may win 
What must not be your own. Ye are as those 
Who sow, in peril and in care, the seed 
Of the fair tree, beneath whose stately shade 
They may not sit. But bless'd be they who toil 
For after-days! — All high and holy thoughts 
Be with you, warriors, thro' the lingering hours 
Of the night-watch! 

Oarcias. Ay, father ! we have need 

Of high and holy thoughts, wherewith to fence 
Our hearts against despair-. Yet have I been 
From youth a son of war. The stars have look'd 
A thousand times upon my couch of health. 
Spread 'midst the wild sierras, by some stream 
Whose dark-red waves look'd e'en as though their 

source 
Lay not in rocky caverns,.but the veins 
Of noble hearts ; while many a nightly crest 
Roll'd with them to the deep. And in the years 
Of my long exile and captivity. 
With the fierce Arab, I have watch'd beneath 
The still pale shadow of some lonely palm. 
At midnight, in the desert ; while the wind 
Sweird with the lion's roar, and heavily 
The fearfulness and might of solitude 
Press'd on my weary heart. 

Hernandez [thonghtfully .) Thou little know'st 
Of what is solituile! — I tell thee, those 
For whom — in earth's remotest nook — hnwe'er 
Divided from their path by chain on chain 
Of miffhty mountains, and the amplitude 
Of rolling seas— there beats one human iieart. 



There breathes one being unto whom their Jiame 

Comes with a thrilling and a gladdening sound, 

Heard o'er the din of life ! are not alone ! 

Not on the deep, nor in the wild, alone ; 

For there is that on earth with which they hold 

A brotherhood of soul ! — Call liim alone. 

Who stands shut out from this ! — And let not those 

Whose homes are bright with sunshine and witlj 

love, 
Put on the insolence of happiness, 
Glorying in that proud lot ! — A lonely hour 
Is on its way to each, to all; for Death 
Knows no companionship. 

Oarcias. I have look'd on Death 

In field, and storm, and flood. But never yet 
Hath aught weigh'd down my spirit to a mood 
Of sadness, dreaming o'er dark auguries. 
Like this, our watch by midnight. Fearful things 
Are gathering round us. Death upon the earth. 
Omens in Heaven ! — The summer-skies put forth 
No clear bright stars above us, but at times. 
Catching some comet's fiery hue of wrath. 
Marshal their clouds to armies, traversing 
Heaven with the rush of meteor steeds, the array 
Of spears and banners, tossing like the pines 
Of Pyrenean forests, when the storm 
Doth sweep the mountains. 

Hernandez. Ay, last night, I too 

Kept vigil, gazing on the angry heavens; 
And I beheld the meeting and the shock 
Of those wild hosts i' th' air, when as they closed, 
A red and sultry mist, like that which mantles 
The thunder's path, fell o'er them. Then were 

flung 
Through the dull glare, broad cloudy banners forth. 
And chariots seem'd to whirl, and steeds to sink. 
Bearing down crested warriors. But all this 
Was dim and shadowy; — then swift darkness 

rush'd 
Down on th' unearthly battle, as the deep 
Swept o'er the Egyptian's armament. — I look'd — 
And all that fiery field of plumes and spears 
Was blotted from heaven's face! — I look'd again 
— And from the brooding mass of clouds leap'd 

forth 
One meteor sword, which o'er the reddening sea 
Shook with strange motion, such as earthquakes 

give 
Unto a rocking citadel ! — I beheld. 
And yet my spirit sunk not. 

Garcias. Neither deem 

That mine hath blench'd.— But these are sights 

and sounds 
To awe the firmest.— Know'st thou what we hear 
At midnight from the walls ? — Were 't but the deep 
Barbaric horn or Moorish tambour's peal, 
Thence might the warrior's heart catch impulses, 
duickening its fiery currents. But our ears 
Are pierced by other tones. We hear the knell 
For brave men in their noon of strength cut down, 
And the shrill wail of woman, and the dirge 
Faint swelling through the streets. Then e'en the 

air 
Hath strange and fitful murmurs of lament, 
As if the viewless watchers of the land 
Sigh'd on its hollow breezes ! — To my soul. 
The torrent-rush of battle, with its din 
Of trampling steeds and ringing panoply. 
Were, after these faint sounds of drooping woe. 
As the free sky's glad music unto him 
Who leaves a couch of sickness. 

Hernandez (with solemnity.') If to plunge 
In the mid-waves of combat, as they bear 
Chargers and spearmen onwards; and to make 
A reckless bosom's front the buoyant mark 
On that wild current, for ten thousand arrows 
If thus to dare were valour's noblest aim, 
Lightly might fame be won ! — but there are things 
Which ask a spirit of more exalted pitch. 
And courage temper'd with a holier fire! 
Well may'st thou say, that these are fearful times ; 
Therefore be firm, be patient ! — There is strength, 
And a fierce instinct, e'en in common souls. 
To bear up manhood with a stormy joy. 
When red swords meet in lightning !— but our task 
Is more, and nobler !— We have to endure, 



128 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



And to keep watch, and to arouse a land, 

And to defend an altar ! — If we fall. 

So that our blood make but the millionth part 

Of Spain's great ransom, we may count it joy 

To die upon her bosom, and beneath 

The banner of her faith!— Think but on this. 

And gird your hearts with silent fortitude, 

Suffering, yet hoping all things— Fare ye well. 

Qarcias. Father, farewell. [Exeunt Garcias 
and his followers. 

Hernandez. These men have earthly ties 

And bondage on their natures ! — To the cause 
Of God, and Spain's revenge, they bring but half 
Their energies and hopes. But he whom Heaven 
Hath called to be th' awakener of a land, 
Should have his soul's atfections all absorb'd 
In that majestic purpose, and press on 
To its fulfilment, as a mountain-born 
And mighty stream, with all its vassal rills, 
Sweeps proudly to the ocean, pausing not 
To dally with the flowers. 

Hark ! what quick step 
Comes hurrying through the gloom at this dead 
hour? 

Elmina enters. 

JElmina. Are not all hours as one to" misery ? — 
Why 
Should she take note of time, for whom the day 
And night have lost their blessed attributes 
Of sunshine and repose ? 

Hernandez. I know thy griefs ; 

But there are trials for the noble heart 
Wherein its own deep fountains must supply 
All it can hope of comfort. Pity's voice 
Comes with vain sweetness to th' unheeding ear 
Of anguish, e'en as music heard afar 
Ou the green shore, by him who perishes 
'Midst rocks and eddying waters. 

Elmina. Think thou not 

I sought thee but for pity. I am come 
For that which grief is privileged to demand 
With an imperious claim, from all whose form. 
Whose human form, doth seal them unto suffering ! 
Father ! I ask thine aid. 

Hernandez. There is no aid 

For thee or for thy children, but with Him 
Whose presence is around us in the cloud. 
As in the shining and the glorious light. 

Elmina. There is no aid ! — Art thou a man of 
God? 
Art thou a man of sorrow, (for the world 
Doth call thee such) and hast thou not been taught 
By God and sorrow — mighty as they are, 
To own the claims of misery ? 

Hernandez. Is there power 

With me to save thy sons ? — Implore of Heaven ! 

Elmina. Doth not Heaven work its purposes by 
man ? 
I tell thee, thou canst save them ! — Art thou not 
Gonzalez' counsellor? — Unto him thy words 
Are e'en as oracles 

Hernandez. And therefore 1 — Speak ! 

The noble daughter of Pelayo's line 
Hath naught to ask, unworthy of the name 
Which is a nation's heritage. — Dost thou shrink? 

Elmina. Have pity on me, father I — I must speak 
That, from the thought of which, but yesterday, 
I had recoil'd in scorn ! — But this is past. 
Oh ! we grow humble in our agonies. 
And to the dust— their birthplace— bow the heads 
That wore the crown of glory ! — I am weak — 
My chastening is far moi'e than I can bear. 

Hernandez. These are no times for weakness. 
On our hills. 
The ancient cedars, in their gather'd might. 
Are battling with the tempest; and the flower 
Which cannot meet its driving blast must die. 
— But thou hast drawn thy nurture from a stem 
Unvvont to bend or break — Lift thy proud head. 
Daughter of Spain ! — What wouldst thou with thy 
lord? 

Elmina. Look not upon me thus ! — I have no 
power 
To tell thee. Take thy keen disdainful eye 
Off from ray soul ! — What! am I sunk to this? 



I, whose blood sprung from heroes ! — How my 

sons 
Will scorn the mother that would bring disgrace 
On their majestic line ! — My sons ! my sons ! 
— Now is all else forgotten ! — I had once 
A babe that in the early spring-time lay 
Sickening upon my bosom, till at last. 
When earth's young flowers were opening to the 

sun. 
Death sunk on his meek eyelid, and I deeni'd 
All sorrow light to mine ! — But now the fate 
Of all my children seems to brood above me 
In the dark thunder-clouds ! — Oh! I have power 
And voice unfaltering now to speak my prayer. 
And my last lingering hope that thou shouldst win 
The father to relent, to save his sons ! 
Hernandez. By yielding up the city ? 

Elmina. Rather say, 
By meeting that which gathers close upon us 
Perchance one day the sooner I — Is't not so? 
Must we not yield at last ?— How long shall man 
Array his single breast against disease, 
And famine, and the sword ? 

Hernandez. How long ? — While he, 

Who shadows forth his power more gloriously 
In the high deeds and sufferings of the soul. 
Than in the circling heavens, with all their stars, 
Or the far-sounding deep, doth send abroad 
A spirit, which takes affliction for its mate. 
In the good cause, with solemn joy ! — How long? 
— And who art thou, that, in the littleness 
Of thine own selfish purpose, would'st set bounds 
To the free current of all noble thought 
And generous action, bidding its bright waves 
Be stay'd, and flow no further ? — But the Power 
Whose interdict is laid on seas and orbs. 
To chain them in from wandering, hath assign'd 
No limits unto that which man's high strength 
Shall, through its aid, achieve ! 

Elmina. Oh ! there are times, 

When all that hopeless courage can achieve 
But sheds a mournful beauty o'er the fate 
Of those who die in vain. 

Hernandez. Who dies in vain 

Upon his country's war-fields, and within 
The shadow of her altars ? — Feeble heart I 
I tell thee that the voice of noble blood. 
Thus pour'd for faith and freedom, hath a tone 
Which from the night of ages, from the gulf 
Of death shall burst, and make its high appeal 
Sound unto earth and heaven ! Ay, let the land. 
Whose sons through centuries of woe have striven 
And perish'd by her temples, sink awhile. 
Borne down in conflict I — But immortal seed 
Deep, by heroic suffering, hath been sown 
On all her ancient hills; and generous hope 
Knows that the soil, in its good time, shall yet 
Bring forth a glorious harvest ! — Earth receives 
Not one red drop from faithful hearts in vain. 
Elmina. Then it must be ! And ye will make 
those lives. 
Those young bright lives, an offering, to retard 
Our doom one day ! 

Hernandez. The mantle of that day 

May wrap the fate of Spain ! 

Elmina. What led me here ? 

Why did I turn to thee in my despair ? 
Love hath no ties upon thee ; what had I 
To hope from thee, thou lone and childless man? 
Go to thy silent home ! — there no young voice 
Shall bid thee welcome, no light footstep spring 
Forth at the sound of thine !— What knows thy 
heart ? 
Hernandez. Woman ! how dar'st thou taunt me 
with my woes ? 
Thy children too shall perish, and I say 
It shall be well !— Why tak'st thou thought for 

them ? 
Wearing thy heart, and wasting down thy life 
Unto its dregs, and making night thy time ' 
Of care yet more intense, and casting health, 
Unpriz'd to melt away, i' th' bitter cup 
Thou minglest for thyself! — Why, what hath earth 
To pay thee back for this ? — Shall they not live, 
(If the sword spare them now) to prove how soon 
All love may be forgotten ? Years of thought, 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



129 



Long faithful watchings, looks of tenderness, 
That changed not, though to change be this world's 

law? 
Shall they not flush thy cheeks with shame, whose 

blood 
Marks, e'en like branding iron ? — to thy sick heart 
Make death a want, as sleep to weariness? 
Doth not all hope end thus? — or e'en at best, 
Will they not leave thee ? — far from thee seek 

room 
For th' overflowings of tlieir fiery souls, 
On life's wide ocean? — Give the bounding steed. 
Or the wing'd bark to youth, that his free course 
May be o'er hills and seas ; and weep thou not 
In thy forsaken home, for the bright world 
Lies all before him, and be sure he wastes 
No thought on thee ? 

Elmina. Not so ! it is not so ! 

Thou dost but torture me ! — My sons are kind, 
And brave, and gentle. 

Hernandez. Others too have worn 

The semblance of all good. Nay, stay thee yet : 
I will be calm, and thou shall learn how earth. 
The fruitful in all agonies, hath woes 
Which far outweigh thine own. 

Elmina. It may not be — 

Whose grief is like a mother's for her sons ? 

Hernandez. My son lay slretch'd upon his bat- 
tle-bier, 
And there were hands wrung o'er him, which had 

caught 
Their hue from his young blood ! 

Elmina. What tale is this? 

Hernandez. Read you no records in this mien, 
of things 
Whose traces on man's aspect are not such 
As the breeze leaves on water? — Lofty birth, 
War, peril, power? — Affliction's hand is strong, 
If it erase the haughty characters 
They grave so deep ! — I have not always been 
That which I am. The name I bore is not 
Of those which perish! — I was once a chief, 
A warrior ! — nor, as now, a lonely man ! 
I was a father ! 

Elmina. Then thy heart can /ecZ/ 

Thou wilt have pity! 

Hernandez. Should I pity ZAce? 
Thy sons will perish gloriously — their blood 

Elmina. Their blood! my children's blood! — 
Thou speak'st as 'twere 
Of casting down a wine-cup, in the mirth 
And wantonness of feasting ! — My fair boys! 
— Man ! hast thou been a father ? 

Hernandez. Let them die ! 

Let them die note, thy children ! so thy heart 
Shall wear their beautiful image all undimm'd. 
Within it, to the last ! Nor shalt thou learn 
The bitter lesson, of what worthless dust 
Are framed the idols, whose false glory binds 
Earth's fetters on our souls ! — Thou think'st it 

much 
To mourn the early dead; but there are tears 
Heavy with deeper anguish ! We endow 
Tliose whom we love, in our fond passionate 

blindness. 
With power upon our souls, too absolute 
To be a mortal's trust ! Within their hands 
We lay the flaming sword, whose stroke alone 
Can reach our hearts, and they are merciful. 
As they are strong, that wield it not to pierce us ! 
— Ay, fear them, fear the loved ! — Had I but wept 
O'er my son's grave, as o'er a babe's, where tears 
Are as spring dew-drops, glittering in the sun. 
And brightening the young verdure, /might still 
Have loved and trusted ! 

Elmina {disdainfully.) But he fell in war ! 
And hath not glory medicine in her cup 
For the brief pangs of nature ? 

Hernandez. Glory !— Peace, 

And listen ! — By my side the stripling grew, 
Last of my line. I rear'd him to take joy 
I' th' blaze of arms, as eagles train their young 
To look upon, the day-king— His quick blood 
E'en to his boyish cheek would mantle up. 
When the heavens rang with trumpets, and his eye 
Flash with the spirit of a race whose deeds— 

17 



But this availeth not !— Yet he was brave. 
I've seen him clear himself a path in fight 
As lightning through a forest, and his plume 
Waved like a torch, above the battle-storm. 
The soldier's guide, when princely crests had sunk. 
And banners were struck down— Around my steps 
Floated his fame, like music, and I lived 
But in the lofty sound. But when my heart 
In one frail ark had ventured all, when most 
He seem'd to stand between my soul and heaven, 
— Then came the thunder-stroke ! 

Elmina. 'Tis ever thus I 

And the unquiet and foreboding sense 
That thus 'twill ever be, doth link itself 
Darkly with all deep love ! — He died ? 

Hernandez. Not so ! 

— Death ! Death ! — Why, earth should be a para- 
dise. 
To make that name so fearful ! Had he died. 
With his young fame about him for a shroud, 
I had not learn'd the might of agony, 
To bring proud natures low !— No ! he fell ofii'— 
—Why do I tell thee this ?— What right hast thou 
To learn how pass'd the glory from my house? 
Yet listen ! — He forsook me ! — He, that was 
As mine own soul, forsook me ! — trampled o'er 
The ashes of his sires ! — Ay, leagued himself 
E'en with the infidel, the curse of Spain, 
And, for the dark eye of a Moorish maid. 
Abjured his faith, his God! — Now, talk of death ! 

Elmina. Oh ! I can pity thee 

Hernandez. There's more to hear. 
I braced the corselet o'er my heart's deep wound. 
And cast my troubled spirit on the tide 
Of war and high events, whose stormy waves 
Might bear it up from sinking; 

Elmina. And ye met 

No more ? 

Hernandez. Be still!— We did!— we met once 
more. 
God had his own high purpose to fulfil. 
Or think'st thou that the sun in his bright heaven 
Had look'd upon such things ? — We met oncemore. 
— That was an hour to leave its lightning-mark 
Sear'd upon brain and bosom !^ — there had been 
Combat on Ebro's banks, and when the day 
Sank in red clouds, it faded from a field 
Still held by Moorish lances. Night closed round, 
A night of sultry darkness, in the shadow 
Of whose broad wing, e'en unto death I strove 
Long with a turban'd champion ; but my sword 
Was heavy with God's vengeance — and prevail'd. 
He fell — my heart e.xulted — and I stood 
In gloomy triumph o'er him — Nature gave 
No sign of horror, for 'twas Heaven's decree ! 
He strove to speak — but I had done the work 
Of wrath too well — yet in his last deep moan 
A dreadful something of familiar sound 
Came o'er my shuddering sense — The moon look'd 

forth. 
And I beheld— speak not !— 'twas he— my son ! 
My boy lay dying there ! He raised one glance, 
And knew me — for he sought with feeble hand 
To cover his glazed eyes. A darker veil 
Sank o'er them soon— I will not have thy look 
Fix'd on me thus !— away ! 

Elmina. Thou hast seen this, 

Thou hast done this— and yet thou liv'st ? 

Hernandez. Hive! 

And know'st thou wherefore ?— On my soul there 

fell 
A horror of great darkness, which shut out 
All earth, and heaven, and hope. I cast away 
The spear and helm, and made the cloister's shade 
The home of my despair. But a deep voice 
Came to me through the gloom, and sent its tones 
Far through my bosom's depths. And I awoke. 
Ay, as the mountain cedar doth shake off 
Its weight of wintry snow, e'en so I shook 
Despondence from my soul, and knew myself 
Seal'd by that blood wherewith my hands were 

dyed. 
And set apart, and fearfully mark'd out 
Unto a mighty task ! — To rouse the soul 
Of Spain, as from the dead ; and to lift up 
The cross, her sign of victory, on the hills, 



130 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Gathering her sons to battle 1 — And my voice 
Must be as freedom's trumpet on the winds, 
From Koncesvalles to the blue sea-waves 
Where Calpe looks on Afric; till the land 
Have fiU'd her cup of vengeance ! — Ask me now 
To yield the Christian city, that its fanes 
May rear the minaret in "the face of heaven ! 
— But death shall have a bloodier vintage-feast 
Ere that day come ! 

Eimiaa. I ask thee this no more, 

For I am hopeless now — But yet one boon — 
Hear me, by all thy woes! — Thy voice hath power 
Through the wide city — here I cannot rest : — 
Aid me to pass the gates ! 

Hernandez. And wherefore? 

Elmina. Thou, 

That wcrt a father, and art now — alone ! 
Canst thou ask ' wherefore?'— Ask the wretch 

whose sands 
Have not an hour to run, whose failing limbs 
Have but one earthly journey to perform, 
Why, on his pathway to the place of death. 
Ay, when the very axe is glistening cold 
Upon his dizzy sight, his pale, parch'd lip 
Implores a cup of water? — Why, the stroke 
Which trembles o'er him in itself shall bring 
Oblivion of all wants, yet who denies 
Nature's last prayer?— I tell thee that the thirst 
Which burns my spirit up is agony 
To be endured no more! — And I must look 
Upon my children's faces, I must hear 
Their voices, ere they perish! — But hath Heaven 
Decreed that they must perish ? — Who shall say 
If in yon Moslem camp there beats no heart 
Which prayers and tears may melt ? 

Hernandez. There ! — with the Moor ! 

Let him fill up the measure of his guilt ! 
— 'Tis madness all!— How would'st thou pass the 

array 
Of armed foes ? 

Elmina. Oh ! free dotli sorrow pass, 

Free and unquestion'd, through a suffering 
world ! (2) 

Hernandez. This must not be. Enough of woe 
is laid 
E'en now, upon thy lord's heroic soul. 
For man to bear, unsinking. Press thou not 
Too heavily th' o'erburthen'd heart — Away! 
Bow down the knee, and send thy prayers for 

strength 
Up to Heaven's gate— Farewell ! \_Exit Hernandez. 

Elmina. Are all men thus ? 

— Why, wer't not better they should fall e'en now 
Than live to shut their hearts, in haughty scorn. 
Against the sufferer's pleadings? — But no, no! 
Who can be like this man, that slew his son, 
Yet wears his life still proudly, and a soul 
Untamed upon his brow ? (jSfler apause.) 

There's one, whose arms 
Have borne my children in their infancy. 
And on whose knees they sported, and whose hand 
Hath led them oft — a vassal of their sire's: 
And I will seek him : he may lend me aid, 
When all beside pass on. 

DIRGE HEARD WITHOUT. 

Thou to thy rest art gone. 
High heart ! and what are we. 
While o'er our heads the storm sweeps on. 
That we should mourn for thee ? 

Free grave and peaceful bier 
To the buried son of Spain ! 
To those that live, the lance and spear, 
And well if not the chain ! 

Be theirs to weep the dead 
As they sit beneath their vines. 
Whose flowery land hath borne no tread 
Of spoilers o'er its shrines ! 

Thou hast thrown off the load 
Wliich we must yet sustain. 
And pour our blood where thine hath flow'd. 
Too blest if not in vain ! 



We give thee holy rite. 
Slow knell, and chanted strain I 
—For those that fall to-morrow night 
May be left no funeral train. 

Again, when trumpets wake, 
We must brace our armour on ; 
But a deeper note thy sleep must break- 
— Thou to thy rest art gone ! 

Happier in this than all 
I'hat, now thy race is run, 
Upon thy name no stain may fall, 
Thy work hath well been done. 



Scene — A Street in the City. 
Hernandez, Gonzalez. 

Hernandez. Would they not hear ? 

Gonzalez. They heard, as one that stands 

By the cold grave which hath but newly closed 
O'er his last friend, doth hear some passer-by 
Bid him be comforted ! — Their hearts have died 
Within them : — We must perish, not as those 
That fall when battle's voice doth shake the hills. 
And peal through Heaven's great arch, but silently, 
And with a wasting of the spirit down, 
A quenching, day by day, of some bright spark, 
Which lit us on our toils ! — Reproach me not ; 
My soul is darken'd with a heavy cloud — 
— Yet fear not I shall yield ! 

Hernandez. Breathe not the word. 

Save in proud scorn : — Each bitter day, o'erpass'd 
By slow endurance, is a triumph won 
For Spain's red cross. And be of trusting heart! 
A few brief hours, and those that turn'd away 
In cold despondence, shrinking from your voice, 
May crowd around their leader, and demand 
To be array'd for battle. We must watch 
For the swift impulse, and await its time, 
As the bark waits the ocean's. You have chosen 
To kindle up their souls, an hour, perchance. 
When they were weary. They had cast aside 
Their arms to slumber ; or a knell, just then 
With its deep hollow tone, bad made the blood 
Creep shuddering through their veins ; or they 

had caught 
A glimpse of some new meteor, and shaped forth 
Strange omens from its blaze. 

Gonzalez. Alas \ the cause 

Lies deeper in their misery !— I have seen. 
In my night's course through this beleaguer'd city, 
Things, whose remembrance doth not pass away 
As vapours from the mountains. — There were 

some. 
That sat beside their dead, with eyes wherein 
Grief had ta'en place of sight, and shut out all 
But its own ghastly object. To my voice 
Some answer'd with a fierce and bitter laugh, 
As men whose agonies were made to pass 
The bounds of sufferance, by some reckless word, 
Dropt from the light of spirit. — Others lay — 
Why should I tell thee, father ! how despair 
Can bring the lofty brow of manhood down 
Unto the very dust? — And yet for this. 
Fear not that I embrace my doom — Oh God ! 
That 'twere my doom alone ! — with less of fix'd 
And solemn fortitude. — Lead on, prepare 
The holiest rites of faith, that I by them 
Once more may consecrate my sword, my life, 
— But what are these ? — Who hath not dearer lives 
Twined with his own ? — I shall be lonely soon — 
Childless ! — Heaven wills it so. Let us begone. 
Perchance before the shrine my heart may beat 
With a less troubled motion. 

[Exeunt Gonzalez and Hernandez. 



.. Scene — A tent in the Moorish Camp. 

Abdullah, Alphonso, Carlos. 

Mdullah. These are bold words : but hast thou 
look'd on death, 
Fair stripling ! — On thy cheek and sunny brow 
Scarce fifteen summers of their laughing course 
Have left light traces. If thy shaft hath pierced 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



131 



The ibex of the mountains, if thy step 
Hath climb'd some eagle's nest, and thou hast made 
His nest thy spoil, 't is much: — And fear'st thou not 
The leader of the mighty ? 

Alphonso. I have been 

Rear'd among fearless men, and 'midst the rocks 
And the wild hills, whereon my fathers fought 
And won their battles. Ther.e are glorious tales 
Told of their deeds, and I have learn'd them all. 
How should I fear tUee, Moor? 

Abdullah. So, thou hast seen 

Fields, where the combat's roar hath died away 
Into the whispering breeze, and where wild flowers 
Bloom o'er forgotten graves! — But know'st thou 

aught 
Of those, where sword from crossing sword strikes 

fire, 
And leaders are borne down, and rushing steeds 
Trample the life from out the mighty hearts 
That ruled the storm so late ? — Speak not of death, 
Till thou hast look'd on such. 

Alphonso. I was not born 

A shepherd's son, to dwell with pipe and crook, 
And peasant-men, amidst the lowly vales; 
Instead of ringing clarions, and bright spears. 
And crested knights ! — I am of princely race. 
And, if my father would have heard my suit, 
I tell thee, infidel ! that long ere now, 
I should have seen how lances meet, and swords 
Do the field's work. 

Abdullah. Boy! know'st thou there are sights 
A thousand times more fearful! — Men may die 
Full proudly, when the skies and mountains ring 
To battle-horn and tecbir.*— But not all 
So pass away in glory. There are those, 
'Midst the dead silence of pale multitudes, 
Led forth in fetters — dost thou mark me, boy? — 
To take their last look of th' all-gladdening sun, 
And bow, perchance, the stately head of youth. 
Unto the death of shame ! — Hast thou seen this ? — 

Alphonso [to Carlos.) Sweet brother, God is with 
us — fear thou not ! 
We have had heroes for our sires — This man 
Should not behold us tremble. 

Abdullah. There are means 

To tame the loftiest natures. Yet again 
I ask thee, wilt thou, from beneath the walls, 
Sue to thy sire for life ; or wouldst thou die, 
With this, thy brother ? 

Alphonso. Moslem! on the hills, 

Around my father's castle, I have heard 
The mountain-peasants, as they dress'd the vines, 
Or drove the goats, by rock and torrent, home. 
Singing their ancient songs; and these were all 
Of the Cid Campeador ; and how his sword 
Tizbna (3) clear'd its way through turban'd hosts, 
And captured Afric's kings, and how he won 
Valencia from the Moor. (4) — I will not shame 
The blood we draw from him ! 

{A Moorish Soldier enters.) 

Soldier. Valencia's lord 

Sends messengers, my chief. 

Abdullah. Conduct them hither. 

[TVie Soldier goes out, and re-enters with Elmina, 
disguised, and an Attendant.^ 

Carlos {springing forward to the Attendant.) Oh! 
take me hence, Diego ! take me hence 
With thee, that I may see my mother's face 
At morning, when I wake. Here dark-brow'd 

men 
Frown strangely, with their cruel eyes, upon us. 
Take me with thee, for thou art good and kind. 
And well I know thou lov'st me, ray Diego ! 

Abdullah. Peace, boy! — What tidings. Christian, 
from thy lord ? 
Is he grown humbler ? — doth he set the lives 
Of these fair nurslings at a city's worth ? 

Alphonso {rushing forward impatiently .) Say not, 
he doth ! — Yet wherefore art thou here ? 
If it be so — I could weep with burning tears 
For very shame! — If this can be, return! 
Tell him, of all his wealth, his battle-spoils, 
I will but ask a war-horse and a sword, 

* " Tecbir," the war-cry of the Moors ajid Arabs. 



And that beside him in the mountain-chase. 
And in his halls, and at his stately feasts. 
My place shall be no more ! — But no ! — I wrong, 
I wrong my father! — Moor! believe it not! 
He is a Champion of the Cross and Spain, 
Sprung from the Cid ; and I too, 1 can die 
As a warrior's high-born child ! 

Elmina. Alas! alas! 

And wouldst thou die, thus early die, fair boy? 
What hath life done to thee, that thou shouldst 

cast 
Its flower away, in very scorn of heart, 
Ere yet the blight be come ? 

Alphonso. That voice doth sound 

Abdullah. Stranger, who art thou ? — this is 
mockery — speak ! 

Elmina {throwing off a mantle and a helmet, and 
embracing her sons.) My boys ! whom 1 have 

rear'd through many hours 
Of silent joys and sorrows, and deep thoughts 
Untold and unimagined ; let me die 
With you, now I have held you to my heart. 
And seen once more the faces, in whose light 
My soul hath lived for years ! 

Carlos. Sweet mother ! now 

Thou shalt not leave us more. 

Abdullah. Enough of this! 

Woman ! what seek'st thou here ?— How hast thou 

dared 
To front the mighty thus amidst his hosts ? 

Ebnina. Think'st thou there dwells no courage 
but in breasts 
That set their mail against the ringing spears. 
When helmets are struck down ? — Thou little 

know'st 
Of nature's marvels!— Chief! my heart is nerved 
To make its way through things which warrior- 
men, 
— Ay, they that master death by field or flood. 
Would look on, ere they braved! — I have no 

thought. 
No sense of fear! — Thou'rt mighty; hut a soul 
Wound up like mine, is mightier, in the power 
Of that one feeling, pour'd through all its depths. 
Than monarchs with their hosts ! — Am I not come 
To die with these, my children? 

Abdullah. Doth thy faith 

Bid thee do this, fond Christian ?— Hast thou not 
The means to save them ? 

Elmina. I have prayers and tears, 

And agonies!— and he— my God— the God 
Whose hand, or soon or late, doth fiiul its hour 
To bow the crested head — hath made these things 
Most powerful in a world where all must learn 
That one deep language, by the storm eall'd forth 
From the bruised reeds of earth!— For thee, per- 
chance. 
Affliction's chastening lesson hath not yet 
Been laid upon thy heart, and thou may'st love 
To see the creatures, by its might brought low. 
Humbled before thee. 

\_She throws herself at his feet. 
Conqueror! lean kneel! 
I, that drew birth from princes, bow myself 
E'en to thy feet ! Call in thy chiefs, thy slaves. 
If this will swell thy triumph, to behold 
The blood of kings, of heroes, thus debased ! 
Do this, but spare my sons! 

Alphonso {attempting to raise her.) Thou shouldst 
not kneel 
Unto this infidel !— Rise, rise, my mother! 
This sight doth shame our house. 

Abdullah. Thou daring boy! 

They that in arms have taught thy father's land 
How chains are worn, shall school that haughty 

mien 
Unto another language. 

Ebnina. Peace, my son ; 

Have pity on my heart! — Oh, pardon, Chief- 
He is of noble blood! — Hear, hear me yet! 
Are there no lives through which the shafts of 

Heaven 
May reach your soul?— He that loves aught on 

earth. 
Dares far too much, if he be merciless! 
Is it lor those, whose frail mortality 



132 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Must one day strive alone with God and death, 
To shut tlieir souls against th' appealing voice 
Of nature in her anguish? — Warrior! man! 
To you too, ay, and haply with your hosts. 
By thousands and ten thousands marshall'd round. 
And your strong armour on, shall come that stroke 
Which the lance wards not. — Where shall your 

high heart 
Find refuge then, if in the day of might 
Woe hath laid prostrate, bleeding at your feet, 
And you have pitied not? 
Abdullah. These are vain words. 

Elmina. Have you no children?— fear you not 
to bring 
The lightning on their heads?— In your own land 
Doth no fond mother, from the tents, beneath 
Your native palms, look o'er the deserts out. 
To greet your homeward step ? — You have not yet 
Forgot so utterly her patient love— 
— For is not woman's, in all climes, the same! — 
That you should scorn my prayer !— Oh Heaven ! 

"his eye 
Doth wear no mercy ! 

Abdullah. Then it mocks you not. 

I have swept o'er the mountains of your land. 
Leaving my traces, as the visitings 
Of storms, upon them!— Shall I now be stay'd? 
Know, unto me it were as light a thing. 
In this, my course, to quench your children's lives. 
As, journeying through a forest, to break off 
The young wild branches that obstruct the way 
With their green sprays and leaves. 

Elmina. Are there such hearts 

Among thy works, oh God ? 

Abdullah. Kneel not to me. 

Kneel to your lord ; on his resolves doth hang 
His children's doom. He may be lightly won 
By a few bursts of passionate tears and words. 
Elmina (rising indignantly.) Speak not of noble 
men I — he bears a soul 
Stronger than love or death. 

Alplionso {with exultation.) I knew 'twas thus — 
He could not fail ! 

Elmina. There is no mercy, none. 

On this cold earth! — To strive with such a world. 
Hearts should be void of love. We will go hence. 
My children, we are summon'd. Lay your lieads. 
In their young radiant beauty, once again 
To rest upon this bosom. He that dwells 
Beyond the clouds which press us darkly round. 
Will yet have pity, and before his face 
We three will stand together ! Moslem ! now 
Let the stroke fall at once. 

Abdullah. 'Tis thine ovs^n will. 

These might e'en yet be spared. 

Elmina. Thou wilt not spare ; 

And he beneath whose eye their childhood grew. 
And in whose paths they sported, and whose ear 
From their first lisping accents caught the sound 
Of that word — Fathei — once a name of love — 

Is Men shall call him steadfast. 

Abdullah. Hath the blast 

Of sudden trumpets ne'er at dead of night. 
When the iand's watchers fear'd no hostile step. 
Startled the slumberers from their dreamy world, 
In cities, whose heroic lords have been 
Steadfast as thine ? 

Elmina. Tliere's meaning in thine eye. 

More than thy wofds. 
Abdullah {pointing to the city.) Look to yon 
towers and walls! 
Think you no hearts within their limits pine. 
Weary of hopeless warfare, and prepared 
To burst the feeble links which bind them still 
Unto endurance ? 

Elmina. Thou hast said too well. 

But what of this? 

Abdullah. Then there are those, to whom 

The Prophet's armies not as foes would pass 
Your gates, but as deliverers. Might they not, 
In some still hour, when weariness takes rest. 
Be won to welcome us ? Your children's steps 
May yet bound lightly through their father's halls. 
Alplionso {indignantly.) Thou treacherous Moor! 
Elmina. Let me not thus be tried 
Beyond all strength, oh Heaven ! 



Abdullah. Now, 'tis for thee. 

Thou Christian mother, on thy sons to pass 
The sentence — life or death— the price is set 
On their young blood, and rests within thy hands. 

Alplionso. Mother, thou tremblest ! 

Abdullah. Hath thy heart resolved? 

Elmina {covering her face with her hands.) 
My boy's proud eye is on me, and the things 
Which rush, in stormy darkness, through my soul, 
Shrink from his glance. I cannot answer here. 

Abdullah. Come forth. We'll commune else- 
where. 

Carlos {to his mother.) Wilt thou go ? 
Oh, let me follow thee! 

Elmina. Mine own fair child ! 

— Now that thine eyes have pour'd once more on 

mine 
The light of their young smile, and thy sweet voice 
Hath sent its gentle music through my soul. 
And I have felt the twining of thine arms — 
— How shall I leave thee ? 

Abdullah. Leave him, as 'twere but 

For a brief slumber, to behold his face 
At morning, with the sun's. 

Alplionso. Thou hast no look 

For me, ray mother ? 

Elmina. Oh, that I should live 

To say, I dare not look on thee ! — Farewell, 
My first-born, fare thee well. 

Alplionso Yet, yet beware ! 

It were a grief more heavy on thy soul, 
That I should blush for thee, than o'er my grave 
That thou shouldst proudly weep. 

Abdullah. Away ! we trifle here. The night 
wanes fast. 
Come forth. 

Elmina. One more embrace— My sons, farewell. 
[Exeunt Abdullah loith Elmina and her Attendant. 

Alplionso. Hear me yet once, my mother ! 

Art thou gone ? 
But one word more. 

[He rushes out, followed by Carlos. 



Scene — The Garden of a Palace in Valencia. 

XiMENA, Theresa. 

Theresa. Stay yet awhile. A purer air doth rove 
Here through the myrtles whispering, and the 

limes. 
And shaking sweetness from the orange boughs, 
Than waits you in the city. 

Ximcna. There are those 

In their last need, and on their bed of death, 
At which no hand doth minister but mine, 
That wait me in the city. Let us hence. 

Theresa. You have been wont to love the music 
made 
By founts, and rustling foliage, and soft winds. 
Breathing of citron-groves. And will you turn 
From these to scenes of death? 

Ximcna. To me the voice 

Of summer, whispering through young flowers 

and leaves. 
Now speaks too deep a language ; and of all 
Its dreamy and mysterious melodies. 
The breathing soul is sadness. — I have felt 
That summons through my spirit, after which 
The hues of earth are changed, and all her sounds 
Seem fraught with secret warnings. There is 

cause 
That I should bend my footsteps to the scenes 
Where death is busy, taming warrior-hearts. 
And pouring winter through the fiery blood. 
And fettering the strong arm. — For now no sigh 
In the dull air, nor floating cloud in heaven, 
No, not the lightest murmur of a leaf. 
But of his angel's silent coming bears 
Some token to my soul. But naught of this 
Unto my mother. — These are awful hours ! 
And on their heavy steps, afllictions crowd 
With such dark pressure, there is left no room 
For one grief more. 

Theresa. Svi'eet lady, talk not thus! 

Your eye this morn doth wear a calmer light, 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



133 



There's more of life in its clear tremulous ray 
Than I have mark'd of late. Nay, go not yet ; 
Rest by this fountain, where the laurels dip 
Their glossy leaves. A fresher gale doth spring 
From the transparent waters, dashing round 
Their silvery spray, with a sweet voice of cool- 
ness. 
O'er the pale glistening marble. 'Twill call up 
Faint bloom, if but a moment's, to your cheek. 
Rest here, ere you go forth, and I will sing 
The melody you love. 

Theresa sings. 

Why is the Spanish maiden's grave 

So far from her own bright land ? 
The sunny flowers that o'er it wave 

IVere sown by no kindred hand. 

'Tis not the orange-bough that sends 

Its breath on the sultry air, 
'Tis not the myrtle-stem that bends 

To the breeze of evening there ! 

But the Rose of Sharon's eastern bloom 

By the silent dvs'elling fades. 
And none but strangers pass the tomb 

Which the Palm of Judah shades. 

The lowly cross, with flowers o'ergrown, 

Marks well that place of rest; 
But who hath graved, on its mossy stones, 

A sword, a helm, a crest ? 

These are the trophies of a chief, 

A lord of the axe and spear ! 
— Some blossom pluck'd, some faded leaf, 

Should grace a maiden's bier ! 

Scorn not her tomb— deny not her 

The honours of the brave ! 
O'er that forsaken sepulchre. 

Banner and plume miglit wave. 

She bound the steel, in battle tried. 

Her fearless heart above. 
And stood with brave men, side by side. 

In the strength and faith of love ! 

That strength prevail'd— that faith was bless'd ! 

True was the javelin thrown. 
Yet pierced it not her warrior's breast. 

She met it with her own ! 

And nobly won, where heroes fell 

In arms for the holy shrine, 
A death which saved what she loved so well, 

And a grave in Palestine. 

Then let the Rose of Sharon spread 

Its breast to the glowing air. 
And the Palm of Judah lift its head. 

Green and immortal there ! 

And let yon gray stone, undefaced. 

With its trophy mark the scene, 
Telling the pilgrim of the waste. 

Where Love and Death have been. 

Ximena. Those notes were wont to make my 
heart beat quick. 
As at a voice of victory : but to-day 
The spirit of the song is changed, and seems 
All mournfal. Oh ! that ere my early grave 
Shuts out the sun-beam, I might hear one peal 
Of the Castilian trumpet, ringing forth 
Beneath my father's banner !— In that sound 
Were life to you, sweet brothers! — But for me— 
Come on— our tasks await us. They who know 
Their hours are number'd out, have little time 
To give the vague and slumberous languor way. 
Which doth steal o'er them in the breath of flowers. 
And whisper of soft winds. 

Elmina enters hurriedly. 

Elmina. This air will calm my spirit, ere yet I 
meet 
His eye, which must be met. Thou here, Ximena ! 
IShe starts back, on seeing Ximena. 



Ximena. Alas ! my mother ! in that hurrying step 

And troubled glance I read 

Elmina (wildly.) Thou read'st it not ! 

Why, who would live, if unto mortal eye 
The things lay glaring, which within our hearts 
We treasure up for God's? — Thou read'st it not! 
I say, thou canst not ! — There's not one on earth 
Shall know the thoughts, which for themselves 

have made 
And kept dark places in the very breast 
Whereon he hath laid his slumber, till the hour 
When the graves open ! 

Ximena. Mother ! what is this? 

Alas ! your eye is wandering, and your cheek 
Flush'd, as with fever! To your woes the night 
Hath brought no rest. 

Elmina. Rest! — who should rest? — not he 

That holds one earthly blessing to his heart 
Nearer than life!— No! if this world have aught 
Of bright or precious, let not him who calls 
Such things his own, take rest !— Dark spirits keep 

watch. 
And they to whom fair honour, chivalrous fame, 
Were as heaven's air, the vital element 
Wherein they breathed, may wake, and find their 

souls 
Made marks for human scorn ! — Will they bear on 
With life struck down, and thus disrobed of all 
Its glorious drapery ? — Who shall tell us this ? 
— VVill he so bear it ? 

Ximena. Mother ! let us kneel, 

And blend our hearts in prayer !— What else is left 
To mortals when the dark hour's might is on 

them ? 
—Leave us, Theresa.— Grief like this doth find 
Its balm in solitude. [Exit Theresa. 

My mother ! peace 
Is heaven's benignant answer to the cry 
Of wounded spirits. Wilt thou kneel with me ? 
Eimina. Away ! 'tis but for souls unstain'd to 

wear 
Heaven's tranquil image on their depths.— The 

stream 
Of my dark thoughts, all broken by the storm, 
Reflects but clouds and lightnings!— Didst thou 

speak 
Of peace?— 'Tis fled from earth! — but there is joy ! 
Wild, troubled joy!— And who shall know, my 

child! 
It. is not happiness? — Why, our own hearts 
Will keep the secret close ! — Joy, joy ! if but 
To leave this desolate city, with its dull 
Slow knells and dirges, and to breathe again 
Th' untainted mountain air !— But hush! the 

trees. 
The flowers, the waters, must hear naught of this ! 
They are full of voices, and will whisper things — 
— VVe'll speak of it no more. 

Ximena. Oh ! pitying Heaven ! 

This grief doth shake her reason ! 

Elmina {starting.) Hark ! a step ! 

'Tis— 'tis thy father's— come away— not now— 
He must not see us now ! 
Ximena. Why should this be ? 

Gonzalez enters and detains Elmina. 

Gonzalez. Elmina, dost thou shun me?— Have 
we not 
E'en from the hopeful and the sunny time 
When youth was as a glory round our brows. 
Held on through life together ?— And is this. 
When eve is gathering round us, with the gloom 
Of stormy clouds, a time to part our steps 
Upon the darkening wild? 

Elmina (coldly.) There needs not this. 

Why shouldst thou think I shunn'd thee ? 

Gonzalez. Should the love 

That shone o'er many years, th' unfading love. 
Whose only change hath been from gladdening 

smiles 
To mingling sorrows and sustaining strength, 
Thus lightly be forgotten ? 

Elmina. Speak'st thou thus! 

— I have knelt before thee with that very plea, 
Wlien it avail'd me not!— But there are things 



134 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Whose very breathings on the soul erase 
All record of past love, save the chill sense, 
Th' unquiet memory of its wasted faith, 
And vain devotedness ! — Ay, they that fix 
Affection's perfect trust on aught of earth, 
Have many a dream to start from ! 

Gonzalez. This is but 

The wildness and the bitterness of grief. 
Ere yet th' unsettled heart hath closed its long 
Impatient coniiicts with a mightier power, 
Wliich makes all conflicts vain. 

Hark! was there not 

A sound of distant trumpets, far beyond 
The Moorish tents, and of another tone 
Than th' Afric horn, Ximena ? 

Ximev.a. Oh, my father ! 

I know that horn too well.— 'T is but the wind, 
Which, with a sudden rising, bears its deep 
And savage war-note from us, wafting it 
O'er the far hills. 

Oonzalcz. Alas ! this woe must be ! 

I do but shake my spirit from its height. 
So startling it with liope I— But the dread hour 
Shall be mot bravely still. I can keep down 
Yet for a little while— and Heaven will ask 
No more — the passionate workings of my heart; 
— And thine — Elminal 

Elmina. 'Tis— I am prepared. 

I have prepared for all. 

Oonzalcz. Oh, well I knew 

Thou wouldst not fail me!— Not in vain my soul. 
Upon thy faith and courage, hath built up 
Unshaken trust. 

Elmina {wildly.) Away !— thou know'st me not ! 
Man dares too far : his rashness would invest 
This our mortality with an attribute 
Too high and awful, boasting that he knows 
One human heart ! 

Gonzalez. These are wild words, but yet 
I will not doubt thee I— Hast thou not been found 
Noble in all things, pouring thy soul's light 
Undimm'd o'er every trial ? — And, as our fates, 
So must our names be, undivided ! — Thine, 
I' th' record of a warrior's life, shall find 
Its place of stainless honour. By his side 

Elmina. May this be borne 1 — How much of 
agony 
Hath the heart room for?— Speak to me in wrath — 
I can endure it ! — But no gentle words ! 
No words of love ! no praise ! — Thy sword might 

slay. 
And be more merciful ! 

Gonzalez. Wherefore art thou thus? 

Elmina, my beloved ! 

Elmina. No more of love ! 

— Have I not said there's that within my heart, 
Whereon it falls as living fire would fall 
Upon an unclosed wound? 

Gonzalez. Nay, lift thine eyes 

That I may read their meaning ! 

Elmina. Never more 

With a free soul— What have I said ? — 'twas 

naught ! 
Take thou no heed! The words of wretchedness 
Admit notscrutiny. Wouldst thoumarkthe speech 
Of troubled dreams ? 

Gonzalez. I have seen thee in the hour 

Of thy deep spirit's joy, and when the breath 
Of grief hung chilling round thee ; in all change. 
Bright health and drooping sickness ; hope and 

fear ; 
Youth and decline; but never yet, Elmina, 
Ne'er hath thine eye till now shrunk back per- 

turb'd 
With shame or dread, from mine ! 

Elmina. Thy glance doth search 

A wounded heart too deeply. 

Gonzalez. Hast thou there 

Aught to conceal ? 

Elmina. Who hath not ? 

Gonzalez. Till this hour 

Thou never hadst ! — Yet hear me !— by the free 
And unattainted fame which wraps the dust 
Of thine heroic fathers 

Elmina. This to me ! 

— Bring your inspiring war-notes, and your sounds 



Of festal music, round a dying man ! 

Will his heart echo them ?— But if thy words 

Were spells, to call up with each lofty tone, 

The grave's most awful spirits, they would stand 

Powerless, before my anguish! 

Gonzalez. Then, by her, 

Who there looks on thee in the purity 
Of her devoted youth, and o'er whose name 
No blight must fall, and whose pale cheek must 

ne'er 
Burn with that deeper tinge, caught painfully 
From the quick feeling of dishonour — Speak ! 
Unfold this mystery ! — By thy sons 

Elmina. My sons ! 

And canst thou name them ? 

Gonzalez. Proudly !— Better far 

They died with all the promise of their youth. 
And the fair honour of their house upon them. 
Than that with manhood's high and passionate 

soul 
To fearful strength unfolded, they should live, 
Barr'd from the lists of crested chivalry. 
And pining in the silence of a woe. 
Which from the heart shuts daylight ;— o'er the 

shame 
Of those who gave them birth !— but thou couldst 

ne'er 
Forget their lofty claims! 

Elmina {wildhj.) 'Twas but foi- them ! 

'Twas for them only !— Who shall dare arraign 
Madness of crime ? — And he who made us, knows 
There are dark moments of all hearts and lives, 
Which bear down reason ! 

Gonzalez. Thou, whom I have loved 
With such high trust, as o'er our nature threw 
A glory, scarce allow'd ; — what hast thou done ? 
Ximena, go thou hence ! 

Elmina. No, no ! my child ! 

There's pity in thy look! — All other eyes 
Are full of wrath and scorn !— Oh ! leave me not! 

Gonzalez. That I should live to see thee thus 
abased! 
— Yet speak ! — Wliathast thou done ? 

Elmina. Look to the gate ! 

Thou'rt worn with toil — But take no rest tonight ! 
The western gate !— Its watchers have been won — 
The Christian city hath been bought and sold! 
They will admit the Moor ! 

Gonzalez. They have been won ! 

Brave men and tried so long ! — Whose work was 
this? 

Elmina. Think'st thou all hearts like thine? — 
Can mothers stand 
To see their children perish? 

Gonzalez. Then the guilt 

Was thine ! 

Elmina. — Shall mortal dare to call it guilt? 
I tell thee, Heaven, which made all holy things. 
Made naught more holy than the boundless love 
Which fills a mother's heart !— I say, 'tis woe 
Enough with such an aching tenderness. 
To love aught earthly !— and in vain ! in vain ! 
—We are press'd down too sorely ! 

Gonzalez {in alow desponding voice.) Now my life 
Is struck to worthless ashes !— In my soul 
Suspicion hath ta'en root. The nobleness 
Henceforth is blotted from all human brows. 
And fearful power, a dark and troublous gift, 
Almost like prophecy, is pour'd upon me. 
To read the guilty secrets in each eye 
That once look'd bright with truth ! 

— Why then I have gain'd 
What men call wisdom !— A new sense, to which 
All tales that speak of high fidelity. 
And holy courage, and proud honour, tried, 
Search'd', and found steadfast, even to martyrdom, 
Are food for mockery !— Why should I not cast 
From my thinn'd locks the wearing helm at once. 
And in the heavy sickness of my soul 
Throw the sword down for ever ?— Is there aught 
In all this world of gilded hollowness. 
Now the bright hues drop off its loveliest things, 
Worth striving for again ? 

Ximena. Father ! look up ! 

Turn unto me, thy child! 
Gonzalez. Thy face is fair ; 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



135 



And hath been unto me, in other days, 
As morning to the journeyer of the deep ; 
But now — 'tis too like hers ! 

Elmina {falling at his feet.) Woe, shame and woe 
Are on me in their might ! — forgive, forgive ! 

Oomalez {starting up.) Doth the Moor deem 
that /have part, or share, 
Or counsel in this vileness ? — Stay me not ! 
Let go thy hold— 'tis powerless on me now — 
I linger here, while treason is at work ! 

[£iiJ Gonzalez. 

Elmina. Ximena, dost thou scorn me ? 

Ximena. 1 have found 

In mine own heart too much of feebleness, 
Hid, beneath many foldings, from all eyes 
But His wliom naught can blind;— to dare do aught 
But pity thee, dear mother! 

Elmina. Blessings light 

On thy fair head, my gentle child, for this ! 
Thou kind and merciful ! — My soul is faint — 
Worn with long strife ! — Is there aught else to do. 
Or suffer, ere we die 7 — Oh God ! my sons ! 
— I have betray'd them ! — All their innocent blood 
Is on my soul ! 

Xiviena. How shall I comfort thee ? 
— Oh! hark! what sounds come deepening on the 

wind, 
So full of solemn hope ! 

{Jl procession of Jfuns passing across the Scene, bear- 
ing relics, and chanting.) 

Chant. A sword is on the land ! 
He that bears down young tree and glorious flower. 
Death is gone forth, he walks the wind in power ! 

— Where is the warrior's hand ? 
Our steps are in the shadows of the grave. 
Hear us, we perish ! Father, hear, and save ! 

If, in the days of song. 
The days of gladness, we have call'd on thee, 
When mirthful voices rang from sea to sea, 

And joyous hearts were strong ; 
Now, that alike the feeble and the brave 
Must cry, " We perish !"— Father ! hear, and save ! 

The days of song are fled ! 
The winds come loaded, wafting dirge-notes by, 
But they that linger, soon unmourn'd must die; 

— The dead weep not the dead ! 
— Wilt thou forsake us 'midst the stormy wave? 
We sink, we perish ! — Father, heat, and save ! 

Helmet and lance are dust ! 
Is not the strong man wither'd from our eye ? 
The arm struck down that held our banners high? 

— Thine is our spirit's trust I 
Look through the gathering shadows of the grave ! 
Do we not perish ? — Father, hear, and save ! 

Hernandez enters. 
Elmina. Why comest thou, man of vengeance? — 
What have I 
To do with thee ?— Am I not bow'd enough ? 
Thou art no mourner's comforter ! 

Hernandez. Thy lord 

Hath sent me unto thee. Till this day's task 
Be closed, thou daughter of the feeble heart ! 
He bids thee seek him not, but lay thy woes 
Before Heaven's altar, and in penitence 
Make thy soul's peace with God. 

Elmina Till this day's task 

Be closed ! — there is strange triumph in thine eyes. 
Is it that I have fallen from that high place 
Whereon I stood in fame ? — But I can feel 
A wild and bitter pride in thus being past 
The power of thy dark glance !— My spirit now 
Is wound about by one sole mighty grief; 
Thy scorn hath lost its sting.— Thou may'st re- 
proach — 
Hernandez. I come not to reproach thee. Heaven 
doth work 
By many agencies; and in its hour 
There is no insect which the summer breeze 
From the green leaf shakes trembling, but may 

serve 
Its deep unsearchable purposes, as well 



As the great ocean, or th' eternal fires. 
Pent in earth's caves! — Thou hast but speeded that 
Which, in th' infatuate blindness of thy heart, 
Thou wouldst have trampled o'er all holy ties, 
But to avert one day ! 

Elmina. My senses fail — 

Thou saidst — speak yet again ! — I could not catch- 
The meaning of thy words. 

Hernandez. E'en now thy lord 

Hath sent our foes defiance. On the walls 
He stands in conference with the boastful Moor, 
And awful strength is with him. Through the 

blood 
Which, this day, must be pour'd in sacrifice, 
Shall Spain be free. On all her olive-hills 
Shall men set up the battle-sign of fire. 
And round its blaze, at midnight, keep the sense 
Of vengeance wakeful in each other's hearts 
E'en wUh thy children's tale ! 

Ximena. Peace, father! peace! 

Behold, she sinks ! — the storm hath done its work 
Upon the broken reed. Oh! lend thine aid 
To bear her hence. \_Tkey lead her away. 



Scene — j? Street in Valencia. Several Groups of 
Citizens and Soldiers, many of them lying on the 
steps of a Church. Arms scattered on the ground 
around them. 

An old Citizen. The air is sultry, as with thun- 
der-clouds. 
I left my desolate home, that I might breathe 
More freely in heaven's face, but my heart feels 
With this hot gloom o'erburthen'd. I have now 
No sons to tend me. Which of you, kind friends, 
Will bring the old man water from the fount. 
To moisten his parch'd lip? [A Citizen goes out. 

Second Citizen. This wasting siege, 

Good Father Lopez, hath gone hard with you ! 
'Tis sad to hear no voices through the house, 
Once peopled with fair sons ! 

Third Citizen. Why, better thus, 

Than to be haunted with their famish'd cries. 
E'en in your very dreams! 

Old Citizen. Heaven's will be done! 

These are dark times ! I have not been alone 
In my afiiiction. 

Third Citizen {with bitterness.) Why, we have but 
this thought 
Left for our gloomy comfort!— And 'tis well! 
Ay, let the balance be awhile struck even 
Between the noble's palace and the hut. 
Where the worn peasant sickens !— They that bear 
The humble dead unhonour'd to their homes, 
Pass now i' th' street no lordly bridal train, 
With its exulting music ; and the wretch 
Who on the marble steps of some proud hall 
Flings himself down to die, in his last need 
And agony of famine, doth behold 
No scornful guests,with their long purple robes. 
To the baiiquet sweeping by. Why, this is just ! 
These are the days when pomp is made to feel 
Its human mould! 

Fourth Citizen. Heard you last night the sound 
Of Saint lago's bell ?— How sullenly 
From the great tower it peal'd ! 

Fifth Citizen. Ay, and 'tis said 

No mortal hand was near when so it seem'd 
To shake the midnight streets. 

Old Citizen. Too well I know 

The sound of coming fate!— 'Tis ever thus 
When death is on his way to make it night 
In the Cid's ancient house. (5) — Oh! there are 

things 
In this strange world of which we have all to learn 
When its dark bounds are pass'd.— Yon bell, un- 

touch'd 
(Save by hands we see not) still doth speak— 
—When of that line some stately head is mark'd— 
With a wild hollow peal, at dead of night. 
Rocking Valencia's towers. I have heard it oft, 
Nor known its warning false. 

Fourth Citizen. And will our chief 

Buy, at the price of his fair children's blood. 



136 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



A few move days of pining wretcliedness 
For this forsaken city ? 

Old Citizen. Doubt it not ! 

-^But with that ransom he may purchase still 
Deliverance for the land? — And yet 'tis sad 
To think that such a race, with all its fame, 
Should pass away ! — For she, his daughter too. 
Moves upon earth as some bright thing whose tim€ 
To sojourn there is short. 

Fifth Citizen. Then vi-oe for us 

When she is gone! — Her voice — the very sound 
Of her soft step was comfort as she moved 
Tlirough the still house of mourning !— Who like 

her 
Shall give us hope again ? 

Old Citizen. Be still ! she comes. 

And with a mien how changed ! — A hurrying step, 
And a flush'd cheek!— What may this bode? — Be 
still! 

XiMENA enters, with Mteniants carrying a Banner. 

Ximena. Men of Valencia ! in an hour like this, 
What do ye here ? 

A Citizen. We die ! 

Ximena. Brave men die now 

Girt for the toil, as travellers suddenly 
By the dark night o'ertaken on their way ! 
These days require such death ! — It is too much 
Of luxury for our wild and angry times. 
To fold the mantle round us and to sink 
From life, as flowers that shut up silently. 
When the sun's heat doth scorch them !— Hear ye 
not? 

Jl Citizen. Lady ! what wouldst thou with us ? 

Ximena. Rise and arm ! 

E'en now the children of your chief are led 
Forth by the Moor to perish !— Shall this be ? 
Shall the high sound of such a name be hush'd, 
I' th' land to which for ages it hath been 
A battle-word, as 'twere some passing note 
Of shepherd music ? — Must this work be done, 
And ye lie pining here, as men in whom 
The pulse which God hath made for noble thought 
Can so be thrill'd no longer ? 

Citizens. 'Tis even so ! 

Sickness, and toil, and grief, have breathed upon us. 
Our hearts beat faint and low. 

Ximena. Are ye so poor 

Of soul, my countrymen ! that ye can draw 
Strength from no deeper source than that which 

sends 
The red blood mantling through the joyous veins. 
And gives the fleet step wings ?— Why, how have 

age 
And sensitive womanhood ere now endured. 
Through pangs of searching fire, in some proud 

cause. 
Blessing that agony ? — Think ye the Power 
Which bore them nobly up, as if to teach 
The torturer where eternal Heaven had set 
Bounds to his sway, was earthly, of this earth, 
This dull mortality ? — Nay, then look on me ! 
Death's touch hath mark'd me, and I stand amcmg 

you, 
As one whose place, i' th' sunshine of your world. 
Shall soon be left to fill! — I say the breath 
Of th' incense, floating through yon fane, shall 

scarce 
Pass from your path before me! But even now, 
1 have that within me, kindling through the dust, 
Which from all time hath made high deeds its 

voice 
And token to the nations !— Look on me ! 
Why hath Heaven pour'd forth courage, as aflame 
Wasting the womanish heart, which must be still'd 
Yet sooner for its swift consuming brightness, 
If not to shame your doubt, and yonr despair. 
And your soul's torpor ? — Yet, arise and arm ! 
It may not be too late. 

A Citizen. Why, what are we, 

To cope with hosts ?— Thus faint, and worn, and 

few, 
O'ernumber'd and forsaken, is't for us 
To stand against the mighty ? 

Ximena. - And for whom 



Hath He, who shakes the mighty with a breath 

From their high places, made the fearfulness, 

And ever-wakeful presence of his power, 

To the pale startled earth most manifest, 

But for the weak? — Was't for the helm'd and 

crown'd 
That suns were stay'd at noonday? — Stormy seas 
As a rill parted ? — Mail'd archangels sent 
To wither up the strength of kings with death? 
— I tell you, if these marvels have been done, 
'Twas for the wearied and the oppress'd of men. 
They needed such!— And generous faith hath 

power 
By her prevailing spirit, e'en yet to work 
Deliverances, whose tale shall live with those 
Of the great elder time ! — Be of good heart ! 
Who is forsaken ?— He that gives the thought 
A place within his breast!— 'Tis not for you. 
— Know ye this banner ? 

Citizens [murmuring to each other.) Is she not 

inspired? 
Doth not Heaven call us by her fervent voice? 
Ximena. Know ye this banner 1 
Citizens. 'Tis the Cid's. 

Ximena. The Cid's ! 
Who breathes that name but in th' exulting tone 
Which the heart rings to ? — Why, the very wind. 
As it swells out the noble standard's fold. 
Hath a triumphant sound!— The Cid's!— it moved 
Even as a sign of victory through the land. 
From the free skies ne'er stooping to a foe ! 
Old Citizen. Can ye still pause, my brethren ?— 

Oh ! that youth 
Through this worn frame were kindling once 

again I 
Ximena. Ye linger still ! — Upon this very air. 
He that was born in happy hour for Spain, (6) 
Pour'd forth his conquering spirit! — 'Twas the 

breeze 
From your own mountains which came down to 

wave 
This banner of his battles, as it droop'd 
Above the champion's death-bed. Nor even then 
Its tale of glory closed.— They made no moan 
O'er the dead hero, and no dirge was sung, (7) 
But the deep tambour and shrill horn of war 
Told when the mighty pass'd ! — They wrapt him 

not 
With the pale shroud, but braced the warrior's 

form 
In war array, and on his barbed steed. 
As for a triumph, rear'd him ; marching forth 
In the hush'd midnight from Valencia's walls, 
Beleaguer'd then as now. All silently 
The stately funeral moved :— but who was he 
That follow'd, charging on the tall white horse. 
And with the solemn standard, broad and pale, 
Waving in sheets of snow-light ? — And the cross, 
The bloody cross, far-blazing from his shield. 
And the fierce meteor-sword ? They fled, they fled ! 
The kings of Afric, with their countless hosts. 
Were dust in his red path ! — The scimetar 
Was shiver'd as a reed!— For in that hour 
The warrior saint that keeps the watch for Spain, 
Was arm'd betimes ! — And o'er that fiery field 
The Cid's high banner stream'd all joyously. 
For still its lord was there ! 

Citizens {rising tnmultuoushj .) Even unto death 
Again it shall be follow'd ! 

Ximena. Will he see 

The noble stem hewn down, the beacon-light 
Which his high house for ages o'er the land 
Hath shone through cloud and storm, thus 

quench'd at once? 
Will he not aid his children in the hour 
Of this their uttermost peril?— Awful power 
Is with the holy dead, and there are times 
When the tomb hath no chain they cannot burst! 
—Is it a thing forgotten, how he woke 
From its deep rest of old, remembering Spain 
In her great danger ?— At the night's mid-watch 
How Leon started, when the sound was heard 
That shook her dark and hollow-echoing streets, 
As with the heavy tramp of steel-clad men. 
By thousands marching through!— For he had 

risen ! 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



137 



The Campeador was on his march again, 
Au(i in his arms, and follow'd by his hosts 
Of shadowy spearmen ! — He had left tlie world 
From which we are dimly parted, and gone forth 
And call'd his buried \<'arriors from their sleep, 
Gathering them round him to deliver Spain ; 
For Afric was upon her! — Morning broke — 
Day rush'd through clouds of battle ;— but at eve 
Our God had triumph'd, and the rescued land 
Sent up a shout of victory from the field. 
That rock'd her ancient mountains. 

The Citizens. Arm! to arms! 

On to our chief! We have strength within us yet 
To die with our blood roused! Now, be the word. 
For the Cid's house ! [Theij begin to arm themselves. 

Ximend. Ye know his battle-song. 

The old rude strain wherewith his bands went 

forth 
To strike do\Vn Paynim swords ! {She sings.} 

THE cid's battle SONG. 

The Moor is on his way ! 
With the tambour-peal and the tecbir-shout. 
And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out, 

He hath niarshall'd his dark array I 

Shouf through the vine-clad land ! 
That her sons on all their hills may hear. 
And sharpen the point of the red wolf-spear. 

And the sword for the brave man's hand! 

(,The Citizens join in the song, while they continue 
arming theiaselves.) 

Banners are in the field! 
The chief must rise from his joyous board. 
And turn from the feast ere the wine be pour'd, 

And take up his father's shield ! 

The Moor is on his way! 
Let the peasant leave his olive-ground. 
And the goats roam wild through tlie pine-woods 
round ! 

— There is nobler work to-day I 

Send forth the trumpet's call ! 
Till the bridegroom cast the goblet down, 
And the marriage-robe and the flowery crown; 

And arm in the banquet-hall! 

And stay the funeral-train! 
Bid the chanted in"ass be hush'd awhile. 
And the bier laid down in the holy aisle, 

And the mourners girt for Spain ! 

{They take up the banner and follow Ximena. cut. 
Their lioices are heard gradually dying away at a 
distance.) 

Ere night, must swords be red ! 
It is not an hour for knells and tears. 
But for helmets braced, and serried spears ! 

To-morrow for the dead ! 

The Cid is in array! 
His steed is barb'd, his plume waves high, 
His banner is up in the stlnny sli^y. 

Now, joy for the Cross to-day ! 



Scene — The Walls of the City: The Plain beneath, 
with the Moorish Camp and Army. 

Gonzalez, Garcias, Hernandez. 
{A wild sound of Moorish Music lieatd from below.) 

Hernandez. What notes are these, in their deep 
mournfulness 
So strangely wild? 

Oarcias. 'Tis the shrill melody 

Of the Moor's ancient death-song. Well I know 
The rude barbaric sound; but, till this hoar. 
It seem'd not fearfiil. Now, a shuddering chill 
Comes o'er me with its tones. — Lo! from yon lent 
They lead the noble boys! 

Hernandez. The young, and pure. 

And beautiful victims! — 'Tis on things like these 

18 



We cast our hearts in wild idolatry. 

Sowing the winds with hope ! — Yet this is well. 

Thus brightly crown'd with life's most gorgeod's 

flowers. 
And all unblemish'd, earth should oflTcr up 
Her treasures unto Heaven ! 

Garcias {to Gonzalez.) My chief, the Moor 
Hath led your children forth. 

Oonialez (starting.) Are my sons there ? 

I knew they could not perish ; for yon Heaven 
Would ne'er behold it!— Where is he that said 
I was no more a father?— They look changed— 
Pallid and worn, as from a ])rison-house! 
Or is't mine eye sees dimly ? — But their steps 
Seerrt heavy, as with pain— I hear the clank— 
Oh God ! their limbs are fetter'd ! 

Abdullah {com,ing forward beneath the walls.) 
Christian, look 
Once more upon thy children. There is yet 
One moment for the trembling of the sword. 
Their doom is still with thee. 

Gonzalez. Why should this man 

So mock us with the semblance of oiir kind? 
— Moor! Moor! thou dost too daringly provoke. 
In thy bold cruelty, th' all-judging One, 
Who visits for such things ! — Hast thou no sense 
Of thy frail nature ?— 'Twill be taught thee yet, 
And darkly shall the anguish of my soul. 
Darkly and heavily, pour itself on thine. 
When tliou shall cry for mercy from the dusf, 
And be denied! 

Abdullah. Nay, is it not thyself 

That hast no mercy and no love witliin thee? 
These are thy sons, the nurslings of tliy house ; 
Speak ! must they live or die ? 

Gonzalez {in violent emotion.) Is it Heaven's will 
To try the dust it kindles for a day. 
With infinite agony !— How have I drawn 
This chastening on my head! — They bloom'd 

around me. 
And my heart grew loo fearless in its joy. 
Glorying in their bright promise ! — If we fall, 
Is there no pardon for our feebleness? 

{Hernandez, without speaking, holds up a Cross 
before him.) 

Abdullah. Speak ! 

Gonzalez {snatching the Cross, and lifting it up.) 
Let the earth be shaken through its depths. 
But this must triumph! 

Abdullah {coldly.) Be it as thou wilt. 
— Unsheathe the scimetar! [To his Guards. 

Garcias {to Gonzalez) Away, my chief I 
This is your place no longer. There are things 
No human heart, though battle-proof as yours, 
Unmadden'd may sustain. 

Gonzalez. Be still ! I have now 

No place on earth but this! 

Alphonso {from beneath.) Men ! give me way, 
That I may speak forth once before I die ! 

Oarcias. The princely boy !— How gallaiitly hi^ 
bro\V 
Wears its high nature in the face of death! 

Alphonso. Father ! 

Gonzalez. My son ! my son ! — mine eldest-born \ 

Alphonso. Stay but upon the ramparts ! — Fear 
thou not — 
There is good courage in me : oh ! my father ! 
I will not shame thee! — only let me fall 
Knowing thine eye looks proudly on thy child. 
So shall my heart have strength: 

Gonzalez. Would, would to God, 

That I might die for thee, my noble boy! 
Alphonso, my fair son ! 

Alphonso. Could I have lived, 

I might have been a warrior! — Now, farewell ! 
But look upon me still ! — I will not blench 
When the keen sabre flashes. — Mark me well ! 
Mine eyelid shall not quiver as it falls, 
So thou wilt look upon me ! 

Oarcias {to Gonzalez.) Nay, my lord ! 

We must be gone ! — thou canst not bear it ! 

Gonzalez. Peace ! 

— Who hath told thee how much man's heart can 

bear? 
—Lend me thine arm- my braiw wSlitls fearfully- 



138 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



How thick the shades close round! — my boy! my 

boy ! 
Where art thou in this gloom ? 

Oarcias. Let US go lience. 

This is a dreadful moment ! 

Oomalez. Hush !— what saidst thou ? 

Now let me look on him ! — Dost thou see aught 
Through the dull mist that wraps us 7 

Oarcias. I behold — 

Oil! for a thousand Spaniards to rush down — 

Oonzalez. Thou seest— My heart stands still to 
hear thee speak ! 
—There seems a fearful hush upon the air, 
As 't were the dead of night ! 

Oarcias. The hosts have closed 

Around the spot in stillness. Through the spears, 
Ranged thick and motionless, I see him not ; 
— But now 

Oonzalez. He bade me keep mine eye upon him. 
And all is darkness round me! — Now ? 

Oarcias. A sword, 

A sword, springs upward, like a lightning burst, 
Through the dark serried mass! — Its cold blue 

glare 
Is wavering to and fro — 't is vanish'd — hark ! 

Oonzalez. I heard it, yes!— I heard the dull dead 
sound 
That heavily broke the silence! — Didst thou speak? 
— I lost thy words — come nearer ! 

Oarcias. 'T was — 't is past ! — 

The sword fell then ! 

Hernandez {with exultation.) Flow forth, thou 
noble blood ! 
Fount of Spain's ransom and deliverance, flow 
Uncheck'd and brightly forth! — Thou kingly 

stream ! 
Blood of our heroes ! blood of martyrdom ! 
Which through so many warrior-hearts hast pour'd 
Thy fiery currents, and hast made our hills 
Free, by thine own free offering ! — Bathe the land. 
But there thou shalt not sink!— Our very air 
Shall take thy colouring, and our loaded skies 
O'er th' infidel hang dark and ominous. 
With battle-hues of thee !— And thy deep voice 
Rising above them to the judgment-seat 
Shall call a burst of gather'd vengeance down. 
To sweep th' oppressor from us! — For thy wave 
Hath made his guilt run o'er! 

Ganzale.z {endeavouring to rouse himself.) 'Tis all 
a dream ! 
There is not one— no hand on earth could harm 
That fair boy's graceful head! — Why look you 
thus! 

Abdullah [pointing to Carlos.) Christian ! e'en 
yet thou hast a son ! 

Oonzalez. E'en yet ! 

Carlos. My father ! take me from these fearful 
men ! 
Wilt thou not save me, father? 

Oonzalez {attempting to unsheathe his sword.) Is 
the strength 
From mine arm shiver'd ? Garcias, follow me ! 

Oarcias. Whither, my chief? 

Gonzalez. Why, we can die as well 

On yonder plain, — ay, a spear's thrust will do 
The little that our misery doth require. 
Sooner than e'er this anguish ! Life is best 
Thrown from us in such moments. 

{^Voices heard at a distance. 

Hernandez. Hush ! what strain 

Floats on the wind? 

Oarcias. 'Tis the Cid's battle-song I 

What marvel hath been wrought ? 

[Voices approaching heard in chorus. 
The Moor is on his way ! 

With the tambour peal and the tecbir-shout. 

And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out. 
He hath marshall'd his dark array ! 

XiMENA enters, followed by the Citizens, with the 
Banner. 

Ximena. Is it too late ?— My father, these are 
men 
Through life and death'prepared to follow thee 
Beneath this banner !— Is their zeal too late? 



— Oh ! there's a fearful history on thy brow 1 
What hast thou seen ? 

Oarcias. It is not all too late. 

Xiincna. My brothers ! 

Hernandez. All is well. 

(To Garcias.) Hush! would'st thou chill 
That which hath sprung within them, as a flame 
From th' altar-embers mounts in sudden bright- 
ness? 
I say, 'tis not too late, ye men of Spain! 
On to the rescue ! 

Ximena. Bless me, oh, my father! 

And I will hence, to aid thee with my prayers. 
Sending my spirit with thee through the storm, 
Lit up by flashing swords ! 

Gonzalez {falling on her neck.) Hath aught been 
spared ? 
Am I not all bereft ?— Thou 'rt left me still! 
Mine own, my loveliest one, thou'rt left me still! 
Farewell !— thy father's blessing, and thy God's, 
Be with thee, my Ximena. 

Ximena. Fare thee well ! 

If, ere thy steps turn homeward from the field, 
The voice is hush'd that still hath welcomed thee, 
Think of me in thy victory ! 

Hernandez. Peace ! no more ! 

This is no time to melt our nature down 
To a soft stream of tears.— Be of strong heart I 
Give me the banner ! Swell the song again ! 

THE CITIZENS. 

Ere night, must swords be red ! 
It is not an hour for knells and tears. 
But for helmets braced and serried spears ! 

To-morrow for the dead ! [Exeunt omnes 



Scene — Before the Jlltar of a Church. 
El.MiNA rises from the steps of the Jlltar. 

Elmina. The clouds are fearful that o'erhang 

thy ways, 
Oh, thou mysterious Heaven ! — It cannot be 
That I have drawn the vials of thy wrath. 
To burst upon me through the lifting up 
Of a proud heart, elate in happiness ! 
No ! in my day's full noon, for me life's flowers 
But wreathed a cup of trembling; and the love. 
The boundless love, my spirit was form'd to bear, 
Hath ever, in its place of silence, been 
A trouble and a shadow, tinging thought 
With hues too deep for joy ! — I never look'd 
On my fair children, in their buoyant mirth. 
Or sunny sleep, when all the gentle air 
Seem'd glowing with their quiet blessedness. 
But o'er my soul there came a shuddering sense 
Of earth, and its pale changes; even like that 
Which vaguely mingles with our glorious dreams, 
A restless and disturbing consciousness 
That the bright things must fade !— How have I 

shrunk 
From the dull murmur of th' unquiet voice, 
With its low tokens of mortality, 
Till my heart fainted 'midst their smiles!— their 

smiles ! 
—Where are those glad looks now ?— Could they 

so down 
With all their joyous light, that seem'd not earth's. 
To the cold grave ? — My children !— Righteous 

Heaven ! 
There floats a dark remembrance o'er my brain 
Of one who told me, with relentless eye. 
That this should be the hour ! 

Ximena enters. 

Ximena. They are gone forth 

Unto the rescue— strong in heart and hope. 
Faithful, though few !— My mother, let thy prayers 
Call on the land's good saints to lift once more 
The sword and cross that sweep the field for Spain, 
As in old battle ; so thine arms e'en yet 
May clasp thv sons !— For me, my part is done ! 
The flame, which dimly might have linger'd yet 
A little while, hath gather'd all its rays 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



139 



Brightly to sink at once ! and it is well ! 
The shadows are around me; to thy heart 
Fold me, that I may die. 

Elmina. My child !— What dream 

Is on thy soul? — E'en now thine aspect wears 
Life's brightest inspiration ! 
Ximena. Death's ! 

Elmina. Away ! 

Thine eye hath starry clearness, and thy cheek 
Doth glow beneath it with a richer hue 
Than ting'd its earliest flower ! 

Ximena. It well may be ! 

There are far deeper and far warmer hues 
Than those which draw their colouring from the 

founts 
Of youth, or health, or hope. 

Elmina. Nay, speak not thus ! 

There's that about thee shining which would send 
E'en through my lieart a sunny glow of joy, 
Wer't not for these sad words. The dim cold air 
And solemn light, whicii wrap these tombs and 

shrines 
As a pale gleaming shroud, seem kindled up 
With a young spirit of ethereal hope 
Caught from thy mien ! — Oh no ! this is not death! 
Ximena. Why should not He, whose touch dis- 
solves our chain. 
Put on his robes of beauty when he comes 
As a deliverer? — He hath many forms. 
They should not all be fearful ! — If his call 
Be but our gathering to that distant land 
For whose sweet waters we have pined with 

thirst. 
Why should not its prophetic sense be borne 
Into the heart's deep stillness, with a breath 
Of summer-winds, a voice of melody, 
Solemn, yet lovely? — Mother ! I depart ! 
— Be it thy comfort, in the after-days, 
That thou hast seen me tlius ! 

Elmina. Distract me not 

With such wild fears ! Can I bear on with life 
When thou art gone ?— Tliy voice, thy step, thy 

smile, 
Pass'd from my path? — Alas ! even now thine eye 
Is changed— thy cheek is fading ! 

Ximena. Ay, the clouds 

Of the dim hour are gathering o'er my sight. 
And yet I fear not, for the God of Help 
Comes in that quiet darkness I — It may soothe 
Thy woes, my mother, if I tell thee now. 
With what glad calmness I behold the veil 
Falling between me and the world, wherein 
My heart so ill hath rested. 
Elmina. Thine ! 

Ximena. Rejoice 

For her, that, when the garland of her life 
Was blighted, and the springs of hope were dried, 
Received her summons hence ; and had no time, 
Bearing the canker at th' impatient heart, 
To wither, sorrowing for that gift of Heaven, 
Which lent one moment of existence light, 
That dimm'd the rest for ever ! 

Elmina. How is this ? 

My child, what mean'st thou ? 

Ximena. Mother ! I have loved, 

And been beloved ! — the sunbeam of an hour. 
Which gave life's hidden treasures to mine eye. 
As they lay shining in their secret founts. 
Went out, and left them colourless.— 'Tis past — 
And what remains on earth? — the rainbow mist, 
Through which I gazed, hath melted, and my sight 
Is clear'd to look on all things as they are I 
— But this is far too mournful ! — Life's dark gift 
Hath fallen too early and too cold upon me ! 
—Therefore I would go hence ! 
Elmina. And thou hast loved 

Unknown 

Xim.ena. Oh ! pardon, pardon that I veil'd 

My thoughts from thee !— But thou hadst woes 

enough. 
And mine came o'er me when thy soul had need 
Of more than mortal strength ! — For I had scarce 
Given the deep consciousness that I was loved 
A treasure's place within my secret heart. 
When earth's brief joy went from me ! 

'Twas at morn 



I saw the warriors to their field go forth. 
And he— my chosen— was there among the rest, 
With his young, glorious brow ! — I look'd again — 
The strife grew dark beneath me— but his plume 
Waved free above the lances. — Yet again — 
It had gone down ! and steeds were trampling o'er 
The spot to which mine eyes were riveted 
Till blinded by th' intenseness of their gaze ! 
— And then — at last — I hurried to the gate. 
And met him there! — I met him ! — on his shield, 
And with his cloven helm, and shiver'd sword, 
And dark hair steep'd in blood ! — They bore him 

past — 
Mother! I saw his face! — Oh! such a death 
Works fearful changes on the fair of earth, 
The pride of woman's eye! 

Elmina. Sweet daughter, peace! 

Wake not the dark remembrance ; for thy frame — 
Ximena. There will be peace ere long. I shut 
my heart 
E'en as a tomb, o'er that lone silent grief. 
That I might spare it thee !— But now the hour 
Is come when that which would have pierced thy 

soul 
Shall be its healing balm. Oh! weep thou not, 
Save with a gentle sorrow! 

Elmina. Must it be? 

Art thou indeed to leave me ? 

Ximena {exultingly.) Be thou glad ! 

I say, rejoice above thy favour'd child ! 
Joy for the soldier, when his field is fought ; 
Joy for the peasant, when his vintage-task 
Is closed at eve! — But most of all for her. 
Who, when her life changed its glittering robes 
For the dull garb of sorrow, which doth cling 
So heavily around the journeyers on. 
Cast down its weight — and slept ! 

Elmina. Alas! thine eye 

Is wandering — yet how brightly ! — Is this death. 
Or some high wondrous vision ? — Speak, my child ! 
How is it with thee now? 

Ximena (wildly.) I see it still! 

'Tis floating, like a glorious cloud on high. 
My father's banner! — Hear'st thou not a sound? 
The trumpet of Castile? — Praise, praise to Hea- 
ven ! 
—Now may the weary rest ! — Be still !— Who calls 

The night so fearful ? [She dies 

Elmina. No ! she is not dead ! 

— Ximena ! speak to me! — Oh! yet a tone 
From that sweet voice, that I may gather in 
One more remembrance of its lovely sound, 
Ere the deep silence fall! — What ! is all hush'd ? 
— No, no!— it cannot be ! — How should we bear 
The dark misgivings of our souls, if Heaven 
Left not such beings with us ? — But is this 
Her wonted look? — too sad a quiet lies 
On its dim fearful beauty !— Speak, Ximena! 
Speak ! — my heart dies vv'ithin me! — She is gone, 
With all her blessed smiles ! — My child ! my child ! 
Where art thou ?— Where is that which answer'd 

me. 
From thy soft-shining eyes!— Hush! doth she 

move? 
—One light lock seem'd to tremble on her brow, 
As a pulse throbb'd beneath ; — 'twas but the voice 
Of my despair that stirr'd it!— She is gone! 

[She throws herself on the body. Oonzalez enters, 
alone, and wounded. 
Elmina (rising as he approaches.) I must not now 
be scorn'd ! — No, not a look, 
A whisper of reproach ! — Behold my woe ! 
Thou canst not scorn me now ! 

Gowcalei. Hast thou heard reW? 

Elmina. Thy daughter on my bosom laid her 
head. 
And pass'd away to rest. — Behold her there, 
Even such as death hath made her! (8) 

OoiLzalez (bending over Ximena's body.) Thou 
art gone 
A little while before me, oh, my child ! 
Why should the traveller weep to part with those 
That scarce an hour will reach their promised 

land 
Ere he too cast his pilgrim staff away, 
And spread his couch beside them ? 



140 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Elmina. Must it be 

Henceforth enough that once a thing so fair 
Had iis bright place among us ?— Is this all, 
Left for the years to come ?— We will not stay ! 
Earth's chain each hour grows weaker. 

Oonzalez [still gaziiig upon Ximena.) Andthou'rt 
laid 
To slumber in the shadow, blessed child! 
Of a yet stainless altar, and beside 
A sainted warrior's tomb!— Oh, fitting place 
For thee to yield thy pure heroic soul 
Back unto him that gave it!— And thy cheek 
Yet smiles in its bright paleness ! 

Elmina. Hadst thou seen 

The look with which she pass'd ! 

Gonzalez (still bending over her.) Why, 'tis 
almost 
Like joy to view thy beautiful repose ! 
The faded image of" that perfect calm 
Floats, e'en as long-forgotten music, back 
Into my weary heart !— No dark wild spot 
On thy clear brow doth tell of bloody hands 
7hat quench'd young life by violence !— We haye 

seen 
Too much of horror, in one crowded hour, 
To weep for aught, so gently gather'd hence ! 
— Oh ! man leaves other traces ! 

Elmina {starting suddenly.) It returns 
On my bewilder'd soul !— Went ye not forth 
Unto the rescue ?— And thou'rt here alone ! 
— Where are my sons ? 

Gonzalez {solemnly) We were too late ! 
Elmina. Too late ! 

Hast thou naught else to tell me ? 

Gmzalez. I brought back 

From that last field the banner of my sires, 
And my own death- wound. 
Elmina. Thine ! 

Gonzalez. Another hour 

Shall hush its throbs for ever. I go hence, 

And with me 

Elmina. No !— Man could not lift his hands— 
Where hast thou left thy sons? 

Gonzalez. I have no sons. 

Elmina. What hast thou said 7 
Gonzalez. That now there lives not one 

To wear the glory of mine ancient house, 
When I am gone to rest. 

Elmina {throioing herself on the ground, and 
speaking in a low hurried voice.) In one brief hour, 

all gone!— and such a death ! 
—I see their blood gush forth!— their graceful 

heads 

Take the dark vision from me, oh my God ! 
And such a death for them .'—I was not there !— 
They were but mine in beauty and in joy. 
Not in that mortal anguish !— Ah, all gone ! 
—Why should I struggle more?— What is this 

Power 
Against whose might, on all sides pressing us, 
We strive with fierce impatience, which but lays 
bur own frail spirit prostrate ? 

(.^fter a long pause.) Now I know 

Thy hand, my God !— and they are soonest crush'd 
That most withstand it !— I resist no more. 
{She rises.)— A light, a light springs up from grief 

and death. 
Which with its solemn radiance doth reveal 
Why we have thus been tried ! 

Gonzalez. Then I may still 

Fix my last look on thee, in holy love, 
Parting, but yet with hope. 

Elmina {falling at his feet.) Canst thou forgive ? 
—Oh, I have driven the arrow to thy heart, 
That should have buried it within mine own, 
And borne the pang in silence !— I have cast 
Thy life's fair honour, in my wild despair, 
As an unvalued gem upon the waves. 
Whence thou hast snatch'd it back, to bear from 

earth. 
All stainless, on thy breast— Well hast thou done— 
But I — canst thou forgive ? 

Gonzalez. Within this hour 

I have stood upon that verge whence mortals fall. 
And learn'd how 'tis with one whose sight grows 
dim, 



And whose foot trembles on the gulf's dark side, 
— Death purifies ail feeling — We will part 
In pity and in love. 

Elmina. Death !— And thou too 

Art on thy way !— Oh, joy for thee, high heart ! 
Glory and joy for thee ! — The day is closed. 
And well and nobly hast thou borne thyself 
Through its long battle-toils, though many swords 
Have enter'd thine own soul ! — But on my head 
Recoil the fierce invokings of despair, 
And I am left far distanced in the race. 
The lonely one of earth ? — Ay, this is just : 
I am not worthy that upon my breast 
In this, thine hour of victory, thou shouldst yield 
Thy spirit unto God. 

Gonzalez. Thou art i thou art ! 

Oh ! a life's love, a heart's long faithfulness. 
E'en in the presence of eternal things, 
Wearing their chasten'd beauty all undimm'd. 
Assert their lofty claims; and these are not 
For one dark hour to cancel! — We are here 
Before that altar which received the vows 
Of our unbroken youth, and meet it is 
For such a witness in the sight of Heaven, 
And in the face of death, whose shadowy arm 
Comes dim between us, to regard th' exchange 
Of our tried hearts' forgiveness, — Who are they. 
That in one path have journey'd, needing not 
Forgiveness at its close ? 



(j? Citizen enters hastily.) 
Citizen. The Moors ! the Moors ! 
Gonzalez. How ! is the city storm'd ? 

Oh! righteous Heaven! — for this I look'd not yet! 
Hath all been done in vain ? — Why, then 'tis time 
For prayer, and then to rest! 

Citizen. The sun shall set. 

And not a Christian voice be left for prayer. 
To-night, within Valencia! — Round our walls 
The paynim host is gathering for th' assault. 
And we have none to guard them. 

Gonzalez. Then my place 

Is here no longer. — I had hoped to die 
Ev'n by the altar and the sepulchre 
Of my brave sires — but this was not to be ! 
Give me my sword again, and lead me hence 
Back to the ramparts. I have yet an hour, 
And it hath still high duties. — Now my wife! 
Thou mother of my children — of the dead — 
Whom I name unto thee, in steadfast hope — 
Farewell ! 

Elmina. No, not farewell ! — My soul hath risen 
To mate itself with thine ; and by thy side. 
Amidst the hurtling lances, I will stand. 
As one on whom a brave man's love hath been 
Wasted not utterly. 

Gonzalez. I thank thee, Heaven, 

That I have tasted of the awful joy 
Which thou hast given to temper hours like this. 
With a deep sense of thee, and of thine ends 
In these dread visitings ! 

(To Elmina.) We will not part. 

But with the spirit's parting ! 

Elmina. One farewell 

To her, that, mantled with fair loveliness. 
Doth slumber at our feet! — My blessed child ! 
Oh ! in thy heart's affliction thou wert strong. 
And holy courage did pervade thy woe. 
As light the troubled waters! — Be at peace ! 
Thou whose bright spirit made itself the soul 
Of all that were around thee ! — And thy life 
E'en then wa<; struck, and withering at the core! 
—Farewell ! — Thy parting look hath on me fall'n. 
E'en as a gleam of heaven, and I am now 
More like what thou hast been! — My soul is 

hush'd. 
For a still sense of purer worlds has sunk 
And settled on its depths \\\t\\ that last smile 
Which from thine shone forth.— Thou hast not 

lived 
In vain— my child, farewell! 

Gonzalez. Surely for thee 

Death had no sting, Ximena ! — We are blest, 
To leatn one secret of the shadowy pass, 
From such an aspect's calmness. Yet once more 
I kiss thy pale young cheek, my broken flower 1 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



141 



In token of th' unilying love and hope, 
Whose land is far away. 



Scene.— The walls of the City. 
Hernandez. — Jl few Citizens gathered round him. 

Hernandez. Why, men have cast the treasures, 
which their Uvea 
Had been worn down in gathering, on the pyre. 
Ay, at their household hearths have lit the brand, 
Ev'n from that shrine of quiet love to bear 
The flame which gave their temples and their 

homes, 
In ashes, to the winds!— They have done this, 
Making a blasted void, where once the sun 
Look'd upon lovely dwellings ; and from earth 
Razing all record that on such a spot 
Childhood hath sprung, age faded, misery wept, 
And frail Humanity knelt before her God; 
— They have done this, in their free nobleness, 
Rather than see the spoiler's tread pollute 
Their holy places ! — Praise, high praise be theirs, 
Who have left man such lessons ! — And these 

things, 
Made your own hills their witnesses! — The sky. 
Whose arch bends o'er you, and the seas, wherein 
Your rivers pour their gold, rejoicing saw 
The altar, and the birth-place, and the tomb. 
And all memorials of man's heart and faith. 
Thus proudly honour'd. — Be ye not outdone 
By the departed! — Though the godless foe 
Be close upon us, we have power to snatch 
The spoils of victory from him. Be but strong! 
A few bright torches and brief moments yet 
Shall baffle his flush'd hope, and we may die. 
Laughing him unto scorn. — Rise, follow me. 
And thou, Valencia! triumph in thy fate. 
The ruin, not the yoke, and make thy towers 
A beacon unto Spain ! 

Citizen. We'll follow thee ! 

— Alas ! for our fair city, and the homes 
Wherein we rear'd our children ! — But away! 
The Moor shall plant no crescent o'er our fanes! 

Voice {from a tower on the walls.) Succours ! — 
Castile! Castile! 

Citizens (rushing to the spot.) It is even so ! 
Now blessing be to Heaven, for we are saved! 
Castile, Castile ! 

Voice {from the tower.) Line after line of spears, 
Lance after lance, upon the horizon's verge, 
Like festal lights from cities bursting up, 
Doth skirt the plains! — in faith, a noble host! 

.Another Voice. The Moor hath turn'd him from 
our walls, to front 
Th' advancing might of Spain! 

Citizens {shouting.) Castile! Castile! 

Gonzalez enters, supported by Elmxna and a 
Citizen.) 

Oonzalez. What shouts of joy are these ? 

Hernandez. Hail, chieftain ! hail ! 

Thus ev'n in death 'tis given thee to receive 
The conqueror's crown! — Behold our God hath 

heard. 
And arm'd himself with vengeance ! — Lo ! they 

come ! 
The lances of Castile ! 

Oonzalez. I knew, I knew 

Thou wouldst not utterly, my God, forsake 
Thy servant in his need ! — My blood and tears 
Have not sunk vainly to th' attesting earth ! 
Praise to thee, thanks and praise, that I have lived 
To see this hour ! 

Elmina. And I too bless thy name. 

Though thou hast proved me unto agony ! 
Oh God ! — thou God of chastening ! 

Voice {from the tower.) They move on ! 

I see the royal banner in the air. 
With its emblazon'd towers ! 

Oonzalez. Go, bring ye forth 

The banner of the Cid, and plant it here. 
To stream above me for an answering sign 
That the good cross doth hold its lofty place 
Within Valencia still !— What see ye now ? 



Hernandez. I see a kingdom's might upon its 
path. 
Moving in terrible magnificence. 
Unto revenge and victory !— With the flash 
Of knightly swords, up-springing from the ranks, 
As meteors from a still and gloomy deep. 
And with the waving of ten thousand plumes, 
Like a land's harvest in the autumn wind, 
And with fierce light, which is not of the sun. 
But flung from sheets of steel— it comes, it comes, 
The vengeance of our God ! 

Oonzalez. I hear it now. 

The heavy tread of mail-clad multitudes, 
Like thunder-showers upon the forest paths. 

Hernandez. Ay, earth knows well the omen of 
that sound. 
And she hath echoes, like a sepulchre's. 
Pent in her secret hollows, to respond 
Unto the step of death ! 

Oonzalez. Hark ! how the wind 

Swells proudly with the battle-march of Spain ! 
Now the heart feels its power!— A little while 
Grant me to live, my God !— What pause is this ? 

Hernandez. A deep and dreadful one !— the ser- 
ried files 
Level their spears for combat ; now the hosts 
Look on each other in their brooding wrath, 
Silent, and face to face. 

VOICES HEARD WITHOUT, CHANTING. 

Calm on the bosom of thy God, 

Fair spirit ! rest thee now ! 
E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod, 

His seal was on thy brow. 

Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! 

Soul, to its place on high ! 
They that have seen thy look in death, 

No more may fear to die. 

Elmina {to Gonzalez). It is the death-hymn 
o'er thy daughter's bier ! 
— But I am calm, and e'en like gentle winds. 
That music, through the stillness of my heart. 
Sends mournful peace. 

Oonzalez. Oh ! well those solemn tones 

Accord with such an hour, for all her life 
Breathed of a hero's soul ! 

[^ sound of trumpets and shouting from the plain.'\ 

Hernandez. Now, now they close ! — Hark ! what 
a dull dead sound 
Is in the Moorish war-shout ! — I have known 
Such tones prophetic oft. — The shock is given — 
Lo ! they have placed their shields before their 

hearts, 
And lower'd their lances with the streamers on. 
And on their steeds bent forward! — God for 

Spain ! 
The first bright sparks of battle have been struck 
From spear to spear, across the gleaming field ! 
— There is no sight on which the blue sky looks 
To match with this !— 'T is not the gallant crests, 
Nor banners with tlieir glorious blazonry; 
The very nature and high soul of man 
Doth now reveal itself! 

Oonzalez. Oh, raise me up. 

That I may look upon the noble scene ! 
—It will not be !— That this dull mist would pass 
A moment from my sight ! — Whence rose that 

shout. 
As in fierce triumph? 

Hernandez {clasping his hands.) Must I look on 
this ? 
The banner sinks — 'tis taken ! 

Oonzalez. Whose ? 

Hernandez. Castile's ! 

Oonzalez. Oh, God of battles ! 

Elmina. Calm thy noble heart ! 

Thou wilt not pass away without thy meed. 
Nay, rest thee on my bosom. 

Hernandez. Cheer thee yet ! 

Our knights have spurr'd to rescue. — There is now 
A whirl, a mingling of all terrible things. 
Yet more appalling than the fierce distinctness 
Wherewith they moved before ! — I see tall plumes 



142 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



All wildly tossing o'er the battle's tide, 
Sway'd by the wrathful motion, and the press 
Of desperate men, as cedar-boughs by storms. 
Many a white streamer there is dyed with blood, 
Many a false corselet broken, many a shield 
Pierced through ! — Now, shout for Santiago, shout ! 
Lo ! javelins with a moment's brightness cleave 
The thickening dust, and barbed steeds go down 
With their helm'd riders ! — Who, but One, can tell 
How spirits part amidst that fearful rush 
And trampling on of furious multitudes? 

Gonzalez. Thou'rt silent ! — See'st thou more ? — 
i My soul grows dark. 

' Hernandez. And dark and troubled, as an angry 

sea, 
Dashing some gallant armament in scorn 
Against its rocks, is all on which I gaze I 
— I can but tell thee how tall spears are cross'd, 
And lances seem to shiver, and proud helms 
To lighten with the stroke ! — But round the spot. 
Where, like a storm-fell'd mast, our standard 

sank, 
The heart of battle burns. 

Gonzalez. Where is that spot ? 

Hernandez. It is beneath the lonely tuft of 
palms. 
That lift their green heads o'er the tumult still, 
In calm and stately grace. 

Gonzalez. There, didst thou say ? 

Then God is with us, and we must prevail ! 
For on that spot they died ! — My children's blood 
Calls on th' avenger thence ! 

Elmina. They perish'd there ! 

— And the bright locks that waved so joyously 
To the free winds, lay trampled and defiled 
Ev'n on that place of death ! — Oh, Merciful 1 
Hush the dark thought within me ! 

Hernandez {with sudden exultation.') Who is he, 
On the white steed, and with the castled helm. 
And the gold broider'd mantle, which doth tloat 
E'en like a sunny cloud above the fight ; 
And the pale cross, which from his breast-plate 

gleams 
With star-like radiance t 

Gonzalez {eagerly.) Didst thou say the cross ? 

Hernandez. On his mail'd bosom shines a broad 
white cross. 
And his long plumage through the darkening air 
Streams like a snow-wreath. 

Gonzalez. That should be — 

Hernandez. The king ! 

— Was it not told us how he sent, of late, 
To the Cid's tomb, e'en for the silver cross. 
Which he who slumbers there was wont to bind 
O'er his brave heart in fight? (9) 

Gonzalez {springing up joyfully.) My king ! my 
king ! 
Now all good saints for Spain ! — My noble king ! 
And thou art there ! — That I might look once more 
Upon thy face 1 — But yet I thank thee. Heaven ! 
That thou hast sent him, from my dying hands 
Thus to receive his city ! 

\^He sinks back into Elmina's arms, 

Hernandez. He hath clear'd 

A pathway 'midst the combat, and the light 
Follows his charge through yon close living mass, 
E'en as the gleam on some proud vessel's wake 
Along the stormy waters ! — 'Tis redeem'd — 
The castled banner !— It is flung once more 
In joy and glory, to the sweeping winds ! 
— "There seems a wavering through the paynim 

hosts — 
Castile doth press them sore— Now, now rejoice ! 

Gonzalez. What hast thou seen ? 

Hernandez. Abdullah falls ! He falls! 

The man of blood ! — the spoiler! — he hath sunk 
In our king's path !— Well hath that royal sword 
Avenged thy cause, Gonzalez. 

They give way. 
The Crescent's van is broken ! — On the hills 
And the dark pine-woods may the infidel 
Call vainly in his agony of fear. 
To cover him from vengeance !— Lo ! they fly 1 
They of the forest and the wilderness 
Are scatter'd e'en as leaves upon the wind ! 
Woe to the sons of Afric !— Let the plains, 



And the vine-mountains, and Hesperian seas. 
Take their dead unto them ! — that blood shall wash 
Our soil from stains of bondage. 

Gonzalez {attempting to raise himself.) Set me 
free ! 
Come with me forth, for I must greet my king, 
After his battle-field ! 

Hernandez. Oh, blest in death! 

Chosen of Heaven, farewell !— Look on the Cross, 
And part from earth in peace ! 

Gonzalez. Now charge once more ! 

God is with Spain, and Santiago's sword 
Is reddening all the air!— Shout forth 'Castile!' 
The day is ours!— I go !— but fear ye not ! 
For Afric's lance is broken, and my sons 
Have won their first good field ! [-He dies. 

Elmina. Look on me yet ! 

Speak one farewell, my husband ! — must thy voice 
Enter my soul no more ? — Thine eye is fix'd — 
Now is my life uprooted,— and 'tis" well. 

(jS Sound of triumphant music is heard, and many 
Castilian Knights and Soldiers enter.) 
Jl Citizen. Hush your triumphal sounds, al- 
though ye come 
E'en as deliverers ! — But the noble dead. 
And those that mourn them, claim from human 

hearts 
Deep silent reverence. 

Elmina {rising proudly.) No, swell forth, Castile! 
Thy trumpet-music, till the seas and heavens, 
And the deep hills, give every stormy note 
Echoes to ring through Spain ! — How, know ye not 
That all array "d for triumph, crown'd and robed 
With the strong spirit which hath saved the land, 
Ev'n now a conqueror to his rest is gone ? 
— Fear not to break that sleep, but let the wind 
Svi'ell on with victory's shout ! — He will not hear — 
Hath earth a sound more sad ? 

Hernandez. Lift ye the dead, 

And bear him with the banner of his race 
Waving above him proudly, as it vvaved 
O'er the Cid's battles, to the tomb, wherein 
His warrior-sires aregather'd. [They raise the body . 

Elmina. Ay, 'tis thus 

Thou shouldst be honour'd ! — And I follow thee 
With an unfaltering and a lofty step. 
To the last home of glory. She that wears 
In her deep heart the memory of thy love 
Shall thence draw strength for all things, till the 

God, 
Whose hand around her hath unpeopled earth. 
Looking upon her still and chasten'd soul. 
Call it once more to thine ! 

{To the Castilians.) 
Awake, I say. 
Tambour and trumpet, wake l^aiid let the land 
Through all her mountains hear your funeral peal ! 
— So should a hero pass to his repose. 

[Exeunt omnes. 



NOTES. 



Note I. 
Mountain Christians, those natives of Spain, who, under their 
prince, Pelayo, took refuge among the mountains of the northern 
provinces, where they maintained their religion and liberty, while 
the rest of their country was overrun by the Moors, 

Note 2. 

Oh free doth sorrow pass^ SfC, 
Frey geht das Ungluck durch die ganze Erde. 

Schilla'^s Death of tVallensteiji, Act iv. sc. 2. 

Note 3. 

Tizona, the fire-brand. The name of the Cid's favourite sword, 
taken in battle from the Moorish king Bucar. 

Note 4. 

How he won Valencia from the Moor., S^c, 
Valencia, which has been repeatedly besieged, and taken by the 
armies of different nations, remained in the possession of the Moors 
for an hundred and seventy years after the Cid's death. It was re- 
gained from them by King Don Jayme, of Aragon, sumamed the 
Conqueror; after whose success I have ventured to suppose it go- 
verned by a descendaiit of tlie Campeador. 



VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



143 



Note 5. 
It was a Spanish tradition, that the great bell of the Cathedral of 
Saragossa always tolled spoutaneously before a king of Spain died. 

Note 6. 
" El que en buen hora nasco j" he that was bom in happy hour. 
An appellation given to the Cid in the ancient chiouicles. 



For this, and the stibsei^uent allusions to Spanish legends, see Ro- 
~ and Chrojiklcs of the Cid. 



Note 8. 
>ila, telle que la mort nous Ta faite V^—Eossuetj Oraisons 



Note 9. 

This circumstance is recorded of King Don Alphonso, the last of 
that name. He sent lo the Cid's tomb for Ihe cross which that war- 
rior was accustomed to wear upon his breast when he went to bat- 
tie, and had it made into one for himself; "because of the faith 
which he had, that through it he should obtain the victory,"— 
Suuthcy's Chronicle of the Cid, 



Kilt ^mptv^ ^^ W^ltvmo. 

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



DRAMATIS PERSONJE, 

ConNT DI Procida. 
Raimond DI Procida, his Son. 
Eribert, Viceroy. 
De Couci. 
montalba. 

GUIDO. 

Alberti. 
Anselmo, a Monk. 

VlTTORIA. 

Constance, Sister to Eribert. 
JJ'oUes, Soldiers, Messengers, Vassals, Peasants, 



Scene— Palermo. 



VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



ACT THE FIRST. 

Scene I. — Jl Valley, with Vineyards and Cottages. 

Groups of Peasants — Procida, disguised as a Pil- 
grim, a7nong them. 

First Peasant. Ay, this was wont to be a festal 
time 
Tn days gone by! I can remember well 
The old familiar melodies that rose 
At break of morn, from all our purple hills, 
To welcome in the vintage. Never since 
Hath music seem'd so sweet. But the light hearts 
Which to those measures beat so joyously, 
Are tamed to stillness now. There is no voice 
Of joy through all the land. 

Second Peasant. Yes ! there are sounds 

Of revelry within the palaces. 
And the fair castles of our ancient lords, 
Where now the stranger banquets. Ye may hear, 
From thence the peals of song and laughter rise 
At midnight's deepest hour. 

Third Peasant. Alas ! we sat, 

In happier days, so peacefully beneath 
The olives and the vines our fathers rear'd, 
Encircled by our children, whose quick steps 
Flew by us in the dance ! The time hath been 
When peace was in the hamlet, wheresoe'er 
The storm might gather. But this yoke of France 
Falls on the peasant's neck as heavily 



As on the crested chieftain's. We are bow'd 
E'en to the earth. 

Peasant's Child. My father, tell me when 
Shall the gay dance and song again resound 
Amidst our chestnut-woods, as in those days 
Of which thou'rt wont to tell the joyous tale? 

First Peasant. When there are light and reck- 
less hearts once more 
In Sicily's green vales. Alas! my boy. 
Men meet not now to quaff the flowing bowl. 
To hear the mirthful song, and cast aside 
The weight of work-day care .-—they meet to speak 
Of wrongs and sorrows, and to whisper thoughts 
They dare not breathe aloud. 

Procida [from the lack-ground.) Ay, it is well 
So to relieve th' o'erburthen'd heart, which pants 
Beneath its weight of wrong; but better far 
In silence to avenge them! 

Jin old Peasant. What deep voice 

Came with that startling tone? 

First Peasant. It was our guest's, 

The stranger pilgrim, who hath sojourn'd here 
Since yester-morn. Good neighbours, mark him 

well : 
He hath a stately bearing, and an eye 
Whose glance looks through the heart. His mien 

accords 
III with such vestments. How he folds round him 
His pilgrim-cloak, e'en as it were a robe 
Of knightly ermine! That commanding step 
Should have been used in courts and camps to 

move. 
Mark him ! 

Old Peasant. Nay, rather, mark him not ; the 
times 
Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts 
A cautious lesson. What should bring him here? 

./? Youth. He spoke of vengeance ! 

Old Peasant. Peace ! we are beset 

By snares on every side, and we must learn 
In silence and in patience to endure. 
Talk not of vengeance, for the word is death. 

Procida [coming forward indignantly.) The word 
is death ! And what hath life for thee. 
That thou shouldst cling to it thus? thou abject 

thing! 
Whose very soul is moulded to the yoke. 
And stamped with servitude. What ! is it life, 
Thus at a breeze to start, to school thy voice 
Into low fearful whispers, and to cast 
Pale jealous looks around thee, lest, e'en then. 
Strangers should catch its echo ? — Is there aught 
In this so precious, that thy furrow'd cheek 
Is blanch'd with terror at the passing thought 
Of hazarding some few and evil days. 
Which drag "thus poorly on? 

Some of the Peasants. Away, away ! 

Leave us, for there is danger in thy presence. 

Procida. Why, what is danger ? — Are there deep- 
er ills 
Than those ye bear thus calmly ? Ye have drain'd 



144 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



The cup of bitterness, till naught remains 
To fear or shrink from — therefore, be ye strong ! 
Power dvvelleth with despair. — Why start ye thus 
At words which are but echoes of the thoughts 
Lock'd in your secret souls? — Full well I know, 
There is not one among you, but hath nursed 
Some proud indignant feeling, which doth make 
One conflict of his life. 1 know thy wrongs, 
And thine — and thine, — but if within your breasts 
There is no chord that vibrates to my voice, 
Then fare ye well. 

A Youth {coming forward.) No, no ! say on, say 
on ! 
Tliere are still free and fiery hearts e'en here, 
That kindle at thy words. 

Peasant. If that indeed 
Thou hast a hope to give us 

Procida. There is hope 

For ail who suffer with indignant thoughts 
Which work in silent strength. What 1 think ye 

Heaven 
O'erlooks th' oppressor, if he bear awhile 
His crested head on high ?— 1 tell you, no ! 
Th' avenger will not sleep. It was an hour 
Of triumph to the conqueror, when our king. 
Our young brave Conradin, in life's fair morn, 
On the red scaffold died. Yet not the less 
Is Justice throned above ; and her good time 
Comes rushing on in storms: that royal blood 
Hath lifted an accusing voice from earth. 
And hath been heard. The traces of the past 
Fade in man's heart, but ne'er doth Heaven forget. 

Peasant. Had we but arms and leaders, we are 
men 
Who might earn vengeance yet ; but wanting 

these. 
What wouldst thou have us do? 

Procida. Be vigilant ; 

And when the signal wakes the land, arise ! 
The peasant's arm is strong, and there shall be 
A rich and noble harvest. Fare ye well. 

[Exit Procida. 

First Peasant. This man should be a prophet : 
how he seem'd 
To read our hearts with his dark searching glance 
And aspect of command 1 And yet his garb 
Is mean as ours. 

Second Peasant. Speak low ; I know him well. 
At first his voice disturb'd me, like a dream 
Of other days; but I remember now 
His form, seen oft when in my youth I served 
Beneath the banners of our kings! 'Tis he 
Who hath been exiled and proscribed so long. 
The Count di Procida. 

Peasant. And is this he ? 

Then Heaven protect him ! for around his steps 
Will many snares be set. 

First Peasant. He comes not thus 

But with some mighty purpose ; doubt it not ; 
Perchance to bring us freedom. He is one. 
Whose faith, through many a trial, hath been 

proved 
True to our native princes. But away ! 
The noontide heat is past, and from the seas 
Light gales are wandering through the vineyards ; 

now 
We may resume our toil. [^Ezeunt Peasants. 



Scene II.— The Terrace of a Castle. 
Eribert, Vittoria. 

Vittoria. Have I not told thee, that I bear a 
heart 
Blighted and cold ?— Th' affections of my youth 
Lie slumbering in the grave; their fount is closed, 
And all the soft and playful tenderness 
Which hath its home in woman's breast, ere yet 
Deep wrongs have sear'd it ; all is fled from mine. 
Urge me no more. 

Erihert. O lady ! doth the flower 

That sleeps entomb'd through the long wintry 

storms 
Unfold its beauty to the breath of spring ; 
And shall not woman's heart, from chill despair, 
Wake at love's voice ? 



Vittoria. Love ! — make love's name thy spell, 
And I am strong ! — the very word calls up 
From the dark past, thoughts, feelings, powers, 

array'd 
In arms against thee ! — Know'st thou whom I loved. 
While my soul's dwelling-place was still on eartli? 
One who was born for empire, and endow'd 
With such high gifts of princely majesty. 
As bow'd all hearts before him! — Was he not 
Brave, royal, beautiful ?— And such he died ; 
He died !— hast thou forgotten ? — And thou 'rt here. 
Thou meet'st my glance, with eyes which coldly 

look'd, 
— Coldly !— nay, rather with triumphant gaze, 
Upon his murder ! — Desolate as I am. 
Yet in the mien of thine affianced bride. 
Oh, ray lost Conradin ! there should be still 
Somewhat of loftiness, which might o'erawe 
The hearts of thine assassins. 

Eribert. Haughty dame ! 

If thy proud heart to tenderness be closed, 
Know, danger is around thee : thou hast foes 
That seek thy ruin, and my power alone 
Can shield thee from their arts. 

Vittoria. Provencal, tell 

Thy tale of danger to some happy heart. 
Which hath its little world of loved ones round, 
For whom to tremble; and its tranquil joys 
That make earth, Paradise. I stand alone ; 
—They that are blest, may fear. 

Eribert. Is there not one 

Who ne'er commands in vain ? — proud lady, bend 
Thy spirit to thy fate ; for know that he. 
Whose car of triumph in its earthquake path 
O'er the bow'd neck of prostrate Sicily, 
Hath borne him to dominion ; he, my king, 
Charles of Anjou, decrees thy hand the boon 
My deeds have well deserved ; and who hath power 
Against his mandates? 

Vittoria. Viceroy, tell thy lord. 

That e'en where chains lie heaviest on the land, 
Souls may not all be fetter'd. Oft, ere now, 
Conquerors have rock'd the earth, yet fail'd to 

tame 
Unto their purposes, that restless fire. 
Inhabiting man's breast. — A spark bursts forth, 
And so they perish !— 'tis the fate of those 
Who sport with lightning — and it may be his. 
—Tell him I fear him not, and thus am free. 
Eribert. 'Tis well. Then nerve that lofty heart 

to bear 
The wrath which is not powerless. Yet again 
Bethink thee, lady! — Love may change — hath 

changed 
To vigilant hatred oft, whose sleepless eye 
Still finds what most it seeks for. Fare thee well. 
—Look to it yet! — Tomorrow I return. 

[Exit Eribert. 
Vittoria. To-morrow ! — Some ere now have slept 

and dreamt 
Of morrows which ne'er dawn'd — or ne'er for them, 
So silently their deep and still repose 
Hath melted into death ! — Are there not balms 
In nature's boundless realm, to pour out sleep 
Like this, on me? — Yet should my spirit still 
Endure its earthly bonds, till it could bear 
To his a glorious tale of his own iMe, 
Free and avenged.— rAda shouldst be now at 

work. 
In wrath, my native Etna ! who dost lift 
Thy spiry pillar of dark smoke so high. 
Through the red heaven of sunset ! — sleep'st thou 

still. 
With all thy founts of fire, while spoilers tread 
The glowing vales beneath ? 

[Procida enters, disguised. 
Ha ! who art thou, 
Unbidden guest, that with so mute a step 
Dost steal upon me? 

Procida. One, o'er whom hath pass'd 

All that can change man's aspect !— Yet not long 
Shalt thou find safety in forgetfulhess. 
—I am he, to breathe whose name is perilous, 
Unless thy wealth could bribe the winds to silence. 
— KnoW'st thou this, lady ? [He shows a ring. 

Vittoria. Righteous Heaven ! the pledge 



VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



145 



Amidst his people from the scaffold thrown 
By him who peiish'd, and whose kingly blood 
E'en yet is unatoned. — My heart beats high — 
— Oh, welcome, welcome ! thou art Procida, 
Th' Avenger, the Deliverer! 

Procida. Call nae so, 

When my great task is done. Yet who can tell 
It" the return'd be welcome ? — Many a heart 
Is changed since last we met. 

Viuoria. ' Why dost thou gaze, 

With such a still and solemn earnestness, 
Upon my alter'dmien ? 

Procida. That I may read 

If to the widow'd love of Conradin, 
Or the proud Eribert's triumphant bride, 
I now intrust my fate. 

Vittoria. Thou, Procida ! 

That ihoii shouldst wrong me thus !— Prolong thy 

gaze 
Till itliath found an answer. 

Procida. 'Tis enough. 

I find it in thy cheek, whose rapid change 
Is from death's hue to fever's ; in the wild 
Unsettled brightness of thy proud dark eye, 
And in thy wasted form. Ay, 't is a deep 
And solemn joy, thus in thy looks to trace. 
Instead of youth's gay bloom, the characters 
Of noble suffering ; — on thy brow the same 
Commanding spirit holds its native state 
Which could not stoop to vileness. Yet the voice 
Of Fame hath told afar, that thou shouldst wed 
This tyrant Eribert. 

Vittoria. And told it not 

A tale of insolent love repell'd with scorn. 
Of stern commands and fearful menaces 
Met with indignant courage ? — Procida ! 
It was but now that haughtily I braved 
His sovereign's mandate, which decrees my hand. 
With its fair appanage of wide domains 
And wealthy vassals, a most fitting boon, 
To recompense his crimes. — I smiled — ay, smiled — 
In proud security ! for the high of heart 
Have still a pathway to escape disgrace. 
Though it be dark and lone. 

Procida. Thou shalt not need 

To tread its shadowy mazes. Trust my words ; 
I tell thee, that a spirit is abroad. 
Which will not slumber till its path be traced 
By deeds of fearful fame. Vittoria, live I 
It is most meet that thou shouldst live, to see 
The mighty expiation ; for thy heart 
(Forgive me that I wrong'd its faith) hath nursed 
A high, majestic grief, whose seal is set 
Deep on thy marble brow. 

Vittoria. Then thou canst tell, 

By gazing on the wither'd rose, that there 
Time, or the blight, hath work'd ! — Ay, this is in 
Thy vision's scope : but oh! the things unseen. 
Untold, undreamt of, which like shadows pass 
Hourly o'er that mysterious world, a mind 
To ruin struck by grief! — Yet doth my soul. 
Far 'midst its darkness, nurse one soaring hope, 
Wherein is bright vitality.— 'Tis to see 
ilis blood avenged, and his fair heritage, 
My beautiful native land, in glory risen, 
Like a warrior from his slumbers ! 

Procida. Hear'st thou not 

With what a deep and ominous moan, the voice 
Of our great mountain swells 1 — There will be 

soon 
A fearful burst !— Vittoria ! brood no more 
In silence o'er thy sorrows, but go forth 
Amidst thy vassals (yet be secret still) 
And let thy breath give nurture to the spark 
Thou'lt find already kindled. I move on 
In shadow, yet awakening in my path 
That which shall startle nations. Fare thee well. 
Vittoria. Vf hen shall we meet again ? — Are we 
not those 
Whom most he loved on earth, and think'st thou 

not 
That love e'en yet shall bring his spirit near 
While thus we hold communion ? 

Procida. Yes, I feel 

Its breathing influence whilst Hook on thee. 
Who vvert its light in life. Yet will we not 

19 



Make womanish tears our offering on his tomb; 
He shall have nobler tribute !— I must hence. 
But thou shalt soon hear more. Await the time. 
[Exeunt separately. 



Scene 111.— The Sea-Shore. 

Raimond di Procida, Constance. 

Constance. There is a shadow far within your 
eye. 
Which hath of late been deepening. You were 

wont 
Upon the clearness of your open brow 
To wear a brighter spirit, shedding round 
Joy like our southern sun. It is not well. 
If some dark thought be gathering o'er your soul. 
To hide it from affection. Why is this. 
My Raimond, why is this? 

Raimond. Oh ! from the dreams 

Of youth, sweet Constance, hath not manhood still 
A wild and stormy wakening ? — They depart, 
Light after light, our glorious visions fade. 
The vaguely beautiful ! till earth, unveil'd. 
Lies pale around ; and life's realities 
Press on the soul, from its unfathom'd deptli 
Rousing the fiery feelings, and proud thoughts. 
In all their fearful strength ! — 'Tis ever thus. 
And doubly so with me ; for I awoke 
With high aspirings, making it a curse 
To breathe where noble minds are bow'd, as here. 
— To breathe !— It is not breath ! 

Constance. I know thy grief, 

— And is 't not mine ?— for those devoted men 
Doom'd with their life to expiate some wild word, 
Born of the social hour. Oh ! I have knelt. 
E'en at my brother's feet, with fruitless tears, 
Imploring him to spare. His heart is shut 
Against my voice ; yet will I not forsake 
The cause of mercy. 

Raimond. Waste not thou thy prayers, 

Oh, gentle love, for them. There's little need 
For Pity, though the galling chain be worn 
By some few slaves the less. Let them depart ! 
There is a world beyond the oppressor's reach. 
And thither lies their way. 

Constance. Alas ! I see 

That some new wrong hath pierced you to the soul. 
Raimond. Pardon, beloved Constance, if my 
words, 
From feelings hourly stung, have caught, per- 
chance, 
A tone of bitterness. — Oh I when thine eyes. 
With their sweet eloquent thoughtfulness, are 

fix'd 
Thus tenderly on mine, I should forget 
All else in their soft beams ; and yet I came 

To tell thee 

Constance. What? What wouldst thou say ? 
O speak ! — 
Thou wouldst not leave me ! 

Raimond. I have cast a cloud. 

The shadow of dark thoughts and ruin'd fortunes. 
O'er thy bright spirit. Haply, were I gone. 
Thou wouldst resume thyself, and dwell once more 
In the clear sunny light of youth and joy, 
E'en as before we met — before we loved ! 
Constance. This is but mockery. — Well thou 
know'st thy love 
Hath given me nobler being ; made my heart 
A home for all the deep sublimities 
Of strong affliction ; and I would not change 
Th' exalted life I draw from that pure source, 
With all its chequer'd hues of hope and fear, 
Ev'n for the brightest calm. Thou most unkind I 
Have I deserved this ? 

Raimond. Oh ! thou hast deserved 

A love less fatal to thy peace than mine. 
Think not 't is mockery !— But I cannot rest 
To be the scorn'd and trampled thing I am 
In this degraded land. Its very skies, 
That smile as if but festivals were held 
Beneath their cloudless azure, weigh me down 
With a dull sense of bondage, and I pine 
For freedom's charter'd air. I would go forth 
To seek my noble father ; he hath been 



146 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Too long a lonely exile, and his name 
Seems fading in llie dim obscurity 
Which gathers round my fortunes. 

Constance. Must we part ? 

And is it come to this ? Oh ! I have still 
Deem'd it enough of joy with thcc to share 
E'en grief itself— and now— but this is vain ; 
Alas ! too deep, too fond, is woman's love. 
Too full of hope, she casts on troubled waves 
The treasures of her soul ! 

Raimond. Oh, speak not thus ! 

Thy gentle and desponding tones fall cold 
Upon my inmost heart.— I leave thee but 
To be more worthy of a love like thine. 
For I have dreamt of fame !— A few short years, 
And we may yet be blest. 

Constance. A few short years ! 

Less lime may well suffice for death and fate 
To work all change on earth !— To break the ties 
Which early love had form'd ; and to bow down 
Th' elastic spirit, and to blight each flower 
Strewn in life's crowded path!— But be it so! 
Be it enough to know that happiness 
Meets thee on other shores. 

Raimond. Where'er I roam, 

Thou Shalt be with my soul!— Thy soft low voice 
Shall rise upon remembrance, like a strain 
Of nmsic heard in boyhood, bringing back 
Life's morning freshness.— Oh! that there should be 
Things, which we love with such deep tenderness, 
But, through that love, to learn how much of woe 
Dwells in one hour like this !— Yet weep thou not ! 
We shall meet soon ; and many days, dear love. 
Ere I depart. 

Constance. Then there's a respite still. 
Days! — not a day but in its course may bring 
Some strange vicissitude to turn aside 
Th' impending blow we shrink from.— Fare thee 
well. {returning) 

—Oh, Raimond! this is not our last farewell I 
Thou wouldst not so deceive me ? 

Raimond. Doubt me not. 

Gentlest and best beloved ! we meet again. 

[Exit Constance. 
Raimond {after a pause.) When shall I breathe 
in freedom, and give scope 
To those untameable and burning thoughts. 
And restless aspirations, which consume 
My heart i' th' land of bondage ? — Oh ! with you, 
Ye everlasting images of power. 
And of infinity ! thou blue-rolling deep. 
And you, ye stars ! whose beams are characters 
Wlierewith the oracles of fate are traced ; 
With you my soul finds room, and casts aside 
The weight that doth oppress her. — But my 

thoughts 
Are wandering far ; there should be one to share 
This awful and majestic solitude 
Of sea and heaven with me. 

[Procida enters imohscrved. 
It is the hour 
He named, and yet he comes not. 

Procida {coming forward.) He is here. 

Raimond. Now, thou mysterious stranger, thou, 
whose glance 
Doth fi.x itself on memory, and pursue 
Thought, like a spirit, haunting its lone hours; 
Reveal thyself; what art thou? 

Procida. One, whose life 

Hath been a troubled stream, and made its way 
Through rocks and darkness, and a thousand 

storms. 
With still a mighty aim. But now the shades 
Of eve are gathering round me, and I come 
To this, my native land, that I may rest 
Beneath its vines in peace. 

Raimond. Seek'st thou for peace ? 

This is no land of peace : unless that deep 
And voiceless terror, which doth freeze men's 

thoughts 
Back to their source, and mantle its pale mien 
With a dull hollow semblance of repose, 
May so be called. 

Procida. There are such calms full oft 

Preceding earthquakes. But I have not been 
So vainly school'd by fortune, and inured 



To shape my course on peril's dizzy brink, 
That it should irk my spirit to put on 
Such guise of hush'd submissiveness as best 
aiay suit the troubled aspect of the timen. 
Raimond. Why, then, thou art welcome, stran- 
ger, to the land 
Where most disguise is needful. — He were bold 
Who now should wear his thoughts upon his brow 
Beneath Sicilian skies. The brother's eye 
Doth search distrustfully the brother's face ; 
And friends, whose undivided lives have drawn 
From the same past their long remembrances, 
Now meet in terror, or no more ; lest hearts 
Full to o'erflowing, in their social hour, 
Should pour out some rash word, which roving 

winds 
Might whisper to our conquerors. — This it is, 
To wear a foreign yoke. 

Procida. It matters not 

To him who holds the mastery o'er his spirit, 
And can suppress its workings, till endurance 
Becomes as nature. We can tame ourselves 
To all extremes, and there is that in life 
To which we cling with most tenacious grasp, 
Ev'n when its lofty claims are all reduced 
To the poor common privilege of breathing. — 
Why dost thou turn away ? 

Raimond. What wouldst thou with me? 

I deem'd thee, by th' ascendant soul which lived. 
And made its throne on thy commanding brow, 
One of a sovereign nature, wliich would scorn 
So to abase its high capacities 
For aught on earth. But thou art like the rest. 
What wouldst thou with me ? 

Procida. I would counsel thee. 

Thou must do that which men— ay, valiant men, — 
Hourly submit to do ; in the proud court, 
And in the stately camp and at the board 
Of midnight revellers, whose flush'd mirth is all 
A strife, won hardly. — Where is he whose heart 
Lies bare, through all its foldings, to the gaze 
Of mortal eye 7 — If vengeance wait the foe. 
Or fate th' oppressor, 'tis in depths conceal'd 
Beneath a smiling surface. — Youth ! I say. 
Keep thy soul down ! — Put on a mask ! — 'tis worn 
Alike by power and weakness, and the smooth 
And specious intercourse of life requires 
Its aid in every scene. 

Raimond. Away, dissembler! 

Life hath its high and its ignoble tasks, 
Fitted to every nature. VVill the free 
And royal eagle stoop to learn the arts 
By which the serpent wins his spell-bound prey ? 
It is because I will not clothe myself 
In a vile garb of coward semblances, 
Tliat now, e'en now, I struggle with my heart, 
To bid what most I love a long farewell. 
And seek my country on some distant shore, 
Where such things are unknown! 

Procida {exultin gly .) Why, this is joy; 

After a long conflict with the doubts and fears, 
And the poor subtleties of meaner minds. 
To meet a spirit, whose bold elastic wing 
Oppression hath not crush'd. — High-hearted youth i 
Thy father, should his footsteps ere again 

Visit these shores 

Raimond. My father! what of him? 

Speak ! was he known to thee? 

Procida. In distant lands 

With him I've traversed many a wild, and look'd 
On many a danger ; and the thought that thou 
Wert smiling then in peace, a happy boy, 
Oft through the storm hath cheer'd him. 

Raimond. Dost thou deem 

That still he lives?— Oh! if it be in chains, 
In woe, in poverty's obscurest cell, 
Say but he lives — and I will track his steps 
E'en to earth's verge ! 

Procida. It may be that he lives. 

Though long his name hath ceased to be a word 
Familiar in man's dwellings. But its sound 
May yet be heard! — Raimond di Procida, 
Remontberest thou thy father? 

Raimond. From my mind 

His form hath faded long, for years have pass'd 
Since he went forth to exile : but a vague, 



VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



147 



Yet powerful image of deep majesty, 
Still dimly gatliering- round each lliouglit of him, 
Doth claim instinctive reverence; and my love 
For his inspiring name hath long become 
Part of my being. 

Procida. Raimond ! doth no voice 

Speak to thy soul, and tell thee whose the arms 
That would enfold thee now? — My son ! my son ! 

Raimond. Father ! — Oh God ! — my father 1 Now 
I know 
Why my heart woke before thee ! 

Procida. Oh! this hour 

Makes hope reality; for thou art all 
My dreams had pictured thee ! 

Raimond. Yet why so long, 

E'en as a stranger hast thou cross'd my paths, 
One nameless and unknown ? — and yet I felt 
Each pulse vi'ithin me thrilling to thy voice. 

Procida. Because 1 would not link thy fate with 
mine. 
Till I could hail the day-spring of that hope 
Which now is gathering round us. — Listen, youth ! 
Thou hast told me of a subdued and scorn 'd. 
And trampled land, whose very soul is bow'd 
And fashion'd to her chains: — but /tell thee 
Of a most generous and devoted land, 
A land of kindling energies ; a land 
Of glorious recollections! — proudly true 
To the high memory of her ancient kings, 
And rising, in majestic scorn, to cast 
Her alien bondage off I 

Raimond. And where is this ? 

Procida. Here, in our isle, our own fair Sicily ! 
Her spirit is awake, and moving on. 
In its deep silence mightier, to regain 
Her place amongst the nations ; and the hour 
Of that tremendous effort is at hand. 

Raimond. Can it be thus indeed? — Thou pour'st 
new life 
Through all my burning veins! — I am as one 
Awakening from a chill and death-like sleep 
To the full glorious day. 

Procida. Thou shall hear more ! 

Thou Shalt hear things which would — ^vvhich will 

arouse 
The proud, free spirits of our ancestors 
E'en from their marble rest. Yet mark me well ! 
Be secret ! — for along my destined path 
I yet must darkly move. — Now, follow me ; 
And join a band of men, in whose high hearts 
There lies a nation's strength. 

Raimond. My noble father ! 

Thy words have given me all for which I pined — 
An aim, a hope, a purpose ! — And the blood 
Doth rush in warmer currents through my veins. 
As a bright fountain from its icy bonds 
By the quick sun-stroke freed. 

Procida. Ay, this is well ! 

Such natures burst men's chains! — Now, follow 
me. [Exeunt. 



ACT THE SECOND. 

Scene I. — Apartment in a Palace. 

Eribert, Constance. 

Constance. Will you not hear me?— Oh! that 
they who need 
Hourly forgiveness, they who do but, live. 
While mercy's voice, beyond th' eternal stars, 
Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus. 
In their vain exercise of pageant power. 
Hard and relentless!— Gentle brother, yet 
'Tis in your choice to imitate that heaven 
Whose noblest joy is pardon. 

Eribert. 'Tis too late. 

You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads 
With eloquent melody— but they must die. 

Constance. What ! — die ! — for words ? — for breath, 
which leaves no trace 
To sully the pure air, wherewith it blends. 
And is, being ntter'd, gone ? — Why, 't were enough 
For such a venial fault to be deprived 
One little day of man's free heritage. 



Heaven's warm and sunny light! — Oh! if you 

deem 
That evil harbours in their souls, at least 
Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest, 
Shall bid stern Justice wake. 

Eribert. I am not one 

Of those weak spirits, that timorously keep watch 
For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues 
Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been 
Where power sits crown'd and arm'd. — And, mark 

me, sister ! 
To a distrustful nature it might seem 
Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead 
For these Sicilian rebels. O'er my being 
Suspicion holds no power.— And yet, take note 
— I have said, and they must die. 

Constance. Have you no fear? 

Eribert. Of what ?— that heaven should fall ? 

Constance. No! — But that earth 
Should arm in madness. — Brother! I have seen 
Dark eyes bent on you, e'en midst festal throngs, 
With such deep hatred settled in their glance, 
My heart hath died within me. 

Eribert. Am I then 

To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl, 
A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look ? 

Constance. Oh ! looks are no illusions, when the 
soul. 
Which may not speak in words, can find no way 
But theirs, to liberty ! — Have not these men 
Brave sons, or noble brothers? 

Eribert. Yes! whose name 

It rests with me to make a word of fear, 
A sound forbidden 'midst the haunts of men. 

Constance. But not forgotten ! — Ah ! beware, 
beware ! 
— Nay, look not sternly on me. — There is one 
Of that devoted band, who yet will need 
Years to be ripe for death.— He is a youth, 
A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek 
The spring-time glow is lingering. 'T was but now 
His mother left me, with a'timid hope 
Just dawning in her breast; and I— I dared 
To foster itsYaint spark.— You smile!— Oh! then 
He will be saved! 

Eribert. Nay, I but smiled to think 

What a fond fool is Hope!— She may be taught 
To deem that the great sun will change his course 
To work her pleasure ; or the tomb give back 
Its inmates to her arms. In sooth, 'tis strange ! 
Yet, with your pitying heart, you should notthus 
Have mock'd the boy's sad mother— I have said, 
You should not thus have mock'd her !— Now, fare- 
well! [/Jizt Eribert. 

Constance. Oh, brother ! hard of heart ! — for 
deeds like these 
There must be fearful chastening, if on high 
Justice doth hold her state.— And I must tell 
Yon desolate mother that her fair young son 
Is thus to perish !— Haply the dread tale 
May slay her too ; — for heaven is merciful. 
— 'Twill be a bitter task ! \_Exit Constance. 



Scene II. — A ruined Tower, surrounded by Woods. 

Procida, Vittoria. 

Procida. Thy vassals are prepared then ? 

Vittoria. Yes, they wait 

Thy summons to their task. 

Procida. Keep the flame bright, 

But hidden, till this hour. — Wouldst thou dare, 

lady. 
To join our councils at tlie night's mid watch, 
In the lone cavern by the rock-hewn cross? 

Vittoria. What should I shrink from ? 

Procida. Oh ! the forest paths 

Are dim and wild, e'en when the sunshine streams 
Through their high arches : but when powerful 

night 
Comes, with her cloudy phantoms, and her pale 
Uncertain moonbeams, and the hollow sounds 
Of her mysterious winds; their aspect then 
Is of another and more fearful world ; 
A realm of indistinct and shadowy forms. 



148 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Waking strange thoughts, almost too much for 

this, 
Our frail terrestrial nature. 

ViUoria. Well I know 

All this, and more. Such scenes have been th' 

abodes 
Where through the silence of my soul have pass'd 
Voices, and visions from the sphere of those 
That have to die no more!— Nay, doubt it not! 
If such unearthly intercourse hath e'er 
Been granted to our nature, 'tis to hearts 
Whose love is with the dead. They, they alone, 
Uamadden'd could sustain the fearful joy 
And glory of its trances !— at the hour 
Which makes guilt tremulous, and peoples earth 
And air with infinite, viewless multitudes, 
I will be with thee, Procida. 

Procida. Thy presence 

Will kindle nobler thoughts, and, in the souls 
Of suffering and indignant men, arouse 
That which may strengthen our majestic cause 
With yet a deeper power.— Know'st thou the spot ? 

ViUoria. Full well. There is no scene so wild 
and lone 
In these dim woods, but I have visited 
Its tangled shades. 

Procida. At midnight, then, we meet. 

^Exit Procida. 

ViUoria. Why should I fear?— Thou wilt be 
with me, thou 
Th' immortal dream and shadow of ray soul, 
Spirit of him I love! that meefst me still 
In loneliness and silence; in the noon 
Of the wild night, and in the forest depths. 
Known but to me ; for whom thou giv'st the winds 
And sighing leaves a cadence of thy voice. 
Till my heart faints with that o'erthrilling joy ! 
—Thou wilt be with me there, and lend my lips 
Words, fiery words, to flush dark cheeks with 

shame. 
That thou art unavenged ! [Exit Vittoria. 



Scene III. — j1 Chapel, with a Monument, on which 
is laid a Sword. — Moonlight. 

Procida, Raimond, Montalba. 

Montalba. And know you not my story? 

Procida. In the lands 

Where I have been a wanderer, your deep wrongs 
Were number'd with our country's ; but their tale 
Came only in faint echoes to mine ear. 
I would fain hear it now. 

Montalba. Hark ! while you spoke, 

There was a voice-like murmur in the breeze. 
Which ev'n like. death came o'er me; — 'twas a 

night 
Like this, of clouds contending with the moon, 
A night of sweeping winds, of rustling leaves, 
And swift wild shadows floating o'er the earth. 
Clothed with a phantom life ; when, after years 
Of battle and captivity, I spurr'd 
My good steed homewards. — Oh ! what lovely 

dreams 
Rose on my spirit !— There were tears and smiles. 
But all of joy I— And there were bounding steps. 
And clinging arms, whose passionate clasp of love 
Doth twine so fondly round the warrior's neck, 
When his plumed lielm is doffd.— Hence, feeble 

thoughts ! 
— I am sterner now, yet once such dreams were 
mine ! 

Raimond. And were they realized ? 

Montalba. Youth I Ask me not. 

But listen ! — I drew near my own fair home ; 
There was no light along its walls, no sound 
Of bugle, pealing from the watch-tower's height 
At my approach, although my trampling steed 
Made the earth ring ; yet the wide gates were 

thrown 
All open. — Then my heart misgave me first, 
And on the threshold of my silent hall 
I paused a moment, and the wind swept by 
With the same deep and dirge-like tone, which 
pierced 



My soul e'en now. — I call'd — my struggling voice 
Gave utterance to my wife's, my cliildren's names; 
They answer'd not — I roused my failing strength. 
And" wildly rush'd within. — And they were there. 

Raimond. And was all well ? 

Montalba. Ay, well ! — for death is well. 

And they were all at rest !— I see them yet. 
Pale in their innocent beauty, which had fail'd 
To stay th' assassin's arm ! 

Raimond. Oh, righteous Heaven ! 

Who had done this ? 

Montalba. Who ! 

Procida. Canst thou question, ?c/io? 

Whom hath the earth to perpetrate such deeds. 
In the cold-blooded revelry of crime. 
But those whose yoke is on us ? 

Raimond. Man of woe ! 

What words hath pity for despair like thine? 

Montalba. Pity! — fond youth ! — My soul disdains 
the grief 
Which doth unbosom its deep secresies. 
To ask a vain companionship of tears, 
And so to be relieved! 

Procida. For woes like these. 

There is no sympathy but vengeance. 

Montalba. None I 

Therefore I brought you hither, that your hearts 
Might catch the spirit of the scene ! — Look round ! 
We are in the awful presence of the dead ; 
Within yon tomb they sleep, whose gentle blood 
Weighs down the murderer's soul. — They sleep!— 

but I 
Am wakeful o'er their dust ! — I laid my sword. 
Without its sheath, on their sepulchral stone, 
As on an altar ; and the eternal stars. 
And heaven, and night, bore witness to my vow, 
No more to wield it, save in one great cause. 
The vengeance of the grave ! — And now the hour 
Of that atonement comes ! 

[He takes the sword from the tomb. 

Raimond. My spirit burns! 
And my full heart almost to bursting swells. 
—Oh ! for the day of battle I 

Procida. Raimond, they 

Whose souls are dark with guiltless blood must 

die ; 
—But not in battle. 

Raimond. How, my father ? 

Procida. No ! 

Look on that sepulchre, and it will teach 
Another lesson.^But th' appointed hour 
Advances.— Thou wilt join our chosen band, 
Noble Montalba ? 

Montalba. Leave me for a time. 

That I may calm my soul by intercourse 
With the still dead, before I mix with men, 
And with their passions. I have nursed for years, 
In silence and in solitude, the flame 
Which doth consume me ; and it is not used 
Thus to be look'd or breathed on. — Procida ! 
I would be tranquil— or appear so — ere 
I join your brave confederates. Through my heart 
There struck a pang — but it will soon have pass'd. 

Procida. Remember ! — in the cavern by the cross. 
Now, follow me, my son. 

[Exeunt Procida and Raimond. 

Montalba {after a pause, leaning on the tomb.) 

Said he, 
" My son ?" — Now, why should this man's life 
Go down in hope, thus resting on a son. 
And I be desolate ? — How strange a sound 
Was that — " my son, .'" — I had a boy, who might 
Have worn as free a soul upon his brow 
As doth this youth.— Why should the thought of 

him 
Thus haunt me?— when I tread the peopled ways 
Of life again, I shall be pass'd each hour 
By fathers with their children, and I must 
Learn calmly to look on.— Methinks 't were now 
A gloomy consolation to behold 
All men bereft, as I am !— But away, 
■Vain thoughts! — One task is left for blighted 

hearts. 
And it shall be fuIfiU'd. [Exit Montalba. 



VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



149 



Scene IV.— Entrance of a Cave, surrounded hy 

Rocks and Forests. A rude Cross seen among 

the Rocks. 

Procida, Raimond. 

Procida. And is it thus, beneath the solemn skies 
Of midnight, and in solitary caves. 
Where the wild forest creatures make their lair, — 
Is't thus the chiefs of Sicily must hold 
The councils of their country ? 

Raimond. Wliy, such scenes 

In their primeval majesty, beheld 
Thus by faint starlight, and the partial glare 
Of the red-streaming lava, will inspire 
Far deeper thoughts than pillar'd halls, wherein 
Statesmen hold weary vigils.— Are we not 
O'ershadow'd by that Etna, which of old 
With its dread prophecies, hath struck dismay 
Through tyrants' hearts, and bade them seek a 

home 
In other climes ?— Hark ! from its depths e'en now 
What hollow moans are sent I 

Enter Montalba, Guido, and other Sicilians 

Procida. Welcome, my brave associates !— We 
can share 
The wolf's wild freedom here !— Th' oppressor's 

haunt 
Is not 'midst rocks and caves. Are we all met ? 

Sicilians. All, all ! 

Procida. The torch-light, sway'd by every gust, 
But dimly shows your features. — Where is he 
Who from his battles had return'd to breathe 
Once more without a corselet, and to meet 
The voices, and the footsteps, and the smiles, 
Blent with his dreams of home ? — Of that dark tale 
The rest is known to vengeance 1 — Art thou liere, 
With thy deep wrongs, and resolute despair, 
Childles"s Montalba? 

Montalba {advancing.) He is at thy side. 
Call on that desolate "father, in the hour 
When his revenge is nigh. 

Procida. Thou, too, come forth, 

From thine own halls an exile !— Dost thou make 
The mountain-fastnesses thy dwelling still. 
While hostile banners, o'er thy rampart walls. 
Wave their proud blazonry? 

First Sicilian. Even so. I stood, 

Last night, before my own ancestral towers 
An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat 
On my bare head— what reck'd it ?— There was joy 
Within, and revelry ; the festive lamps 
Were streaming from each turret, and gay songs, 
r th' stranger's tongue, made mirth. They little 

deem'd 
Who heard their melodies!— but there are thoughts 
Best nurtured in the wild; there are dread vows 
Known to the mountain echoes. — Procida ! 
Call on the outcast, when revenge is nigh. 

Procida. I knew a young Sicilian, one whose 
heart 
Should be all fire. On that most guilty day, 
When, with our martyr'dConradin, the flower 
Of the land's knighthood perish'd ; he, of whom 
I speak, a weeping boy, whose innocent tears 
Melted a thousand hearts that dared not aid. 
Stood by the scaffold with extended arms. 
Calling upon his father, whose last look 
Turn'd full on him its parting agony. 
The father's blood gush'd o'er him !— and the boy 
Then dried his tears, and with a kindling eye, 
And a proud flush on his young cheek, look'd up 
To the bright heaven. — Doth he remember still 
That bitter hour ? 

Second Sicilian. He bears a sheathless sword ! 
— Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh. 

Procida. Our band shows gallantly — but there 
are men 
Who should be with us now, had they not dared 
In some wild moment of festivity 
To give their full hearts way, and breathe a wish 
For" freedom ! — and some traitor — it might be 
A breeze perchance — bore the forbidden sound 
To Eribert: — so they must die — unless 
Fate (who at times is wayward) should select 



Some other victim first! — But have they not 
Bi-others or sons among us? 

Quidn. Look on me ! 

I have a brother, a young high-soul'd boy, 
And beautiful as a sculptor's dream, with brow 
That wears, amidst its dark rich curls, the stamp 
Of inborn nobleness. In truth, he is 
A glorious creature ! — But his doom is seal'd 
With their's of whom you spoke ; and I have 

knelt — 
— Ay, scorn me not ! 't was for his life— I knelt 
E'en at the viceroy's feet, and he put on 
That heartless laugh of cold malignity 
We know so well, and spurn'd me. — But the stain 
Of shame like this, takes blood to wash it off, 
And tlius it shall be cancell'd ! — Call on me. 
When the stern moment of revenge is nigh. 

Procida. I call upon thee now ! The land's high 
soul 
Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze 
Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature's hues 
To deeper life before it. In his chains, 
The peasant dreams of freedom !^Ay, 'tis thus 
Oppression fans th' imperishable flame 
With most unconscious hands.— No praise be her's 
For what she blindly works!— When slavery's cup 
O'erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant 
To dull our senses, through each burning vein 
Pours fever, lending a delirious strength 
To burst man's fetters — and they shall be burst ! 
I have hoped, when hope seem'd frenzy ; but a 

power 
Abides in human will, when bent with strong 
Unswerving energy on one great aim, 
To make and rule its fortunes! — I have been 
A wanderer in the fullness of my years, 
A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas. 
Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands, 
To aid our holy cause. And aid is near : 
But we must give the signal. Now, before 
The majesty of yon pure Heaven, whose eye 
Is on our hearts, whose righteous arm befriends 
The arm that strikes for freedom ; speak ! decree 
The fate of our oppressors. 

Montalba. Let them fall 

When dreaming least of peril ! — When the heart. 
Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget 
That hate may smile, but sleeps not. — Hide the 

sword 
With a thick veil of myrtle, and in halls 
Of banqueting, where the full wine-cup shines 
Red in the festal torch-light ; meet we there. 
And bid them welcome to the feast of death. 

Procida. Thy voice is low and broken, and thy 
words 
Scarce meet our ears. 

Montalba. Why, then, I thus repeat 

Their import. Let th' avenging sword burst forth 
In some free festal hour — and woe to him 
Who first shall spare ! 

Raimond. Must innocence and guilt 

Perish alike ? 

Montalba. Who talks of innocence ? 
When hath their hand been stay'd for innocence'? 
Let them all perish !— Heaven will choose its own. 
Why should their children live ?— The earthquake 

whelms 
Itsundistinguish'd thousands, making graves 
Of peopled cities in its path— and this 
Is Heaven's dread justice— ay, and it is well ! 
Why then should we be tender, when the skies 
Deal thus with man ? — What, if the infant bleed ? 
Is there not power to hush the mother's pangs? 
What, if the youthful bride perchance should fall 
In her triumphant beauty ?— Should we pause ? 
As if death were not mercy to the pangs 
Which make our lives the records of our woes? 
Let them all perish !— And if one be found 
Amidst our band to stay th' avenging steel 
For pity, or remorse, or boyish love. 
Then be his doom as theirs ! [j3 pause- 

Why gaze ye thus ! 
Brethren, what means your silence ! 

Sicilians. Be it so! 

If one among ns stay th' avenginr: steel 



150 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



For love or pity, be ffis doom as theirs ? 
Pledge we our faith to this ! 

Raimond {rushing forward indignantly.) Our 
faith to this! 
No! I but rfj-camt I heard it: — Can it be? 
My countrymen, my father!— Is it thus 
That freedom should be won ? — Awake! Awake 
To loftier thoughts ! — Lift up, exultingly, 
On the crown'd heights and to the sweeping winds, 
Your glorious banner! — Let your trumpet's blast 
Make the tombs thrill with echoes ! Call aloud, 
Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear 
The stranger's yoke no longer I — What is he 
Who carries on his practised lip a smile. 
Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits 
Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings? 
That which our nature's instinct doth recoil from. 
And our blood curdle at— Ay, yours and mine— 
A murderer !— Heard ye ?— Shall that name with 

ours 
Go down to after days ?— Oh, friends ! a cause 
Like that for which we rise, hath made bright 

names 
Of the elder time as rallying words to men. 
Sounds full of might and immortality I 
And shall not ours be such ? 

Montalba. Fond dreamer, peace ! 

Fame! What is fame? — Will our unconscious dust 
Start into thrilling rapture from the grave. 
At the vain breath of praise ?— I tell ye, youth. 
Our souls are parch'd with agonizing thirst. 
Which must be quench'd though death were in the 

draught : 
We must have vengeance, for our foes have left 
No other joy unblighted. 

Procida. Oh ! my son. 

The time is past for such high dreams as thine, 
Thou know'st not whom we deal with. Knightly 

faith 
And chivalrous honour, are but things whereon 
They cast disdainful pity. We must meet 
Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge. 
And, for our names — whate'er the deeds, by which 
We burst our bondage— is it not enough 
That in the chronicle of days to come. 
We, through a bright ' For Ever,' shall be call'd 
The men who saved their country ? 

Raimond. Many a land 

Hath bow'd beneath the yoke, and then arisen. 
As a strong lion rending silken bonds, 
And on the open field, before high Heaven, 
Won such majestic vengeance, as hath made 
Its name a power on earth.— Ay, nations own 
It is enough of glory to be call'd 
The children of the mighty, who redeem'd 
Their native soil— but not by means like these. 
Montalba. I have no children.— Of Montalba's 
blood 
Not one red drop doth circle through the veins 
Of auglit that breathes?— Why, what have /to do 
With far futurity ?— My spirit lives 
But in the past. — Away ! when thou dost stand 
On this fair earth, as doth a blasted tree 
Which the warm sun revives not. then return. 
Strong in thy desolation ; but till then, 
Thou art not for our purpose ; we have need 
Of more unshrinking hearts. 

Raimond. Montalba ! know, 

I shrink from crime alone. Oh ! if my voice 
Might yet have power among you, I would say. 
Associates, leaders, be avenged ! but yet 
As knights, as warriors ! 

Montalba. Peace ! have we not borne 

Th' indelible taint of contumely and chains? 
We arc ?iof knights and warriors.— Our bright crests 
Have been defiled and trampled to the earth. 
Boy ! we are slaves— and our revenge shall be 
Deep as a slave's disgrace. 

Raimond. Why, then, farewell : 

I leave you to your counsels. He that still 
Would hold his lofty nature undebased. 
And his name pure, were but a loiterer Iiere. 
Procida. And is it thus indeed ?— dost tlwu 
forsake 
Our cause, my son! 
Raimond. Oh, father! what proud hopes 



This hour hath blighted !— yet, whate'er betide, 
It is a noble privilege to look up 
Fearless in heaven's bright face— and this is mine, 
And shall be still. [Exit Raimond. 

Procida. He's gone !— Why, let it be ! 

I trust our Sicily hath many a son 
Valiant as mine. Associates! 'I is decreed 
Our foes shall perish. We have but to name 
The hour, the scene, the signal. 

Montalba. It should be 

In the full city, when some festival 
Hath gather'd throngs, and lull'd infatuate hearts 
To brief security. Hark ! is there not 
A sound of hurrying footsteps on the breeze ? 
We are betray'd.— Who art thou ? 

ViTTORiA enters. 

Procida. One alone 

Should be thus daring. Lady, lift the veil 
That shades thy noble brow. 

{She raises her veil, the Sicilians draw back with 
respect.) 

Sicilians. Th' affianced bride 

Of our lost king ! 

Procida. And more, Montalba ; know 

Within this form there dwells a soul as high 
As warriors in their battles e'er have proved, 
Or patriots on the scaflbld. 

Vittoria. Valiant men! 

I come to ask your aid. You see me, one 
Whose widow'd youth hath all been consecrate 
To a proud sorrow, and whose life is held 
In token and memorial of the dead. 
Say, is it meet that lingering thus on earth. 
But to behold one great atonement made. 
And keep one name from fading in men's hearts, 
A tyrant's will should force me to profane 
Heaven's altar with unhallow'd vows— and live 
Stung by the keen unutterable scorn 
Of my own bosom, live— another's bride ? 

Sicilians. Never, oh, never !— fear not, noble 
lady! 
Worthy of Conradin ! 

Vittoria. Yet hear me still. 

Ms bride, that Eribert's, who notes our tears 
With his insulting eye of cold derision, 
And, could he pierce the depths where feeling 

works, 
Would number e'en our agonies as crimes. 
— Say, is tliis meet ? 

Guido. We deem'd these nuptials, lady, 

Thy willing choice ; but 't is a joy to find 
Thou art noble still. Fear not ; by all our wrongs, 
This shall not be. 

Procida. Vittoria, thou art come 

To ask our aid, but we have need of thine. 
Know, the completion of our high designs 
Requires — a festival ; and it must be 
Thy bridal ! 

Vittoria. Procida ! 

Procida. Nay, start not thus, 

'Tis no hard task to bind your raven hair 
With festal garlands, and to bid the song 
Rise, and the wine-cup mantle. No — nor yet 
To meet your suitor at the glitt'ring shrine. 
Where death, not love, awaits him ! 

Vittoria. Can my soul 

Dissemble thus ? 

Procida. We have no other means 

Of winning our great birthright back from those 
Who have usurp'd it, than so lulling them 
Into vain confidence, that they may deem 
All wrongs forgot ; and this may be best done 
By what I ask of thee. 

Montalba. Then we will mix 

With the flush'd revellers, making their gay feast 
The harvest of the grave. 

Vittoria. A bridal day ! 

— Must it be so ?— Then, chiefs of Sicily, 
I bid you to my nuptials ! but be there 
Withyourbright swords unsheathed, for thus alone 
My guests should be adorn'd. 

Procida. And let thy banquet 

Be soon announced, for there are noble men 



VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



151 



Sentenced to die, for whom we fain would purchase 
Reprieve with other blood. 

Vittoria. Be it then the day 

Preceding that appointed for their doom. 

Guido. My brother, thou shalt live !— Oppression 
boasts 
No gift of prophecy !— It but remains 
To name our signal, chiefs ! 

Montalba. The Vesper-bell. 

Procida. Even so, the Vesper-bell, whose deep- 
toned peal 
Is heard o'er land and wave. Part of our band. 
Wearing the guise of antic revelry. 
Shall enter, as in some fantastic pageant, 
The halls of Eribert ; and at the hour 
Devoted to the sword's tremendous task, 
I follow with the rest. — The Vesper-bell ! 
That sound shall wake th' avenger ; for 'tis come. 
The time when power is in a voice, a breath, 
To burst the spell which bound us. But the night 
Is waning, with her stars, which, one by one. 
Warn us to part. Friends, to your homes ! — your 

homes ? 
That name is yet to win. — Away, prepare 
For our next meeting in Palermo's walls. 
The Vesper-bell ! Remember ! 

Sicilians. Fear us not. 

The Vesper-bell ! [Exeunt omnes. 



ACT THE THIRD. 

Scene I. — Apartment in a Palace. 
Eribert, Vittoria. 

Vittoria. Speak not of love — it is a word with 
deep. 
Strange magic in its melancholy sound. 
To summon up the dead ; and they should rest. 
At such an hour, forgotten. There are things 
We must throw from us, when the heart would 

gather 
Strength to fulfil its settled purposes ; 
Therefore, no more of love! — But, if to robe 
This form in bridal ornaments, to smile, 
(I can smile yet,) at thy gay feast, and stand 
At th' altar by thy side ; if this be deem'd 
Enough, it shall be done. 

Eribert. My fortune's star 

Doth rule th' ascendant still ! {Apart.) — If not of 

love. 
Then pardon, lady, that I speak of joy. 
And with exulting heart 

Vittoria. There is no joy ! 

—Who shall look through the far futurity. 
And, as the shadowy visions of events 
Develop on his gaze, 'midst their dim throng. 
Dare, with oracular mien, to point, and say, 
" This will bring happiness?" — Who shall do this? 
— Who, thou and I, and all! — There's One, who 

sits 
In His own bright tranquillity enthroned. 
High o'er all storms, and looking far beyond 
Their thickest clouds; but we, from whose dull 

eyes 
A grain of dust hides the great sun, e'en we 
Usurp his attributes, and talk, as seers, 
Of future joy and grief! 

Eribert. Thy words are strange. 

Yet will I hope that peace at length shall settle 
Upon thy troubled heart, and add soft grace 
To thy majestic beauty. — Fair Vittoria! 
Oh ! if my cares 

Vittoria. I know a day shall come 

Of peace to all. Ev'n from my darken'd spirit 
Soon shall each restless wish be exorcised. 
Which haunts it now, and I shall then lie down 
Serenely to repose. Of this no more. 
— I have a boon to ask. 

Eribert. Command my power. 

And deem it thus most honour'd. 

Vittoria. Have I tlien 

Soar'd such an eagle-pitch, as to command 
The mighty Eribert ? — And yet 'tis meet ; 
For I bethink me now, I should have worn 



A crown upon this forehead.— Generous lord I 
Since thus you give me freedom, know, there is 
An hour I have loved from childhood, and a sound 
Whose tones, o'er earth and ocean sweetly bearing 
A sense of deep repose, have luU'd me oft 
To peace — which is forgetfulness ; I mean 
The Vesper-bell. I pray you let it be 
The summons to our bridal— Hear you not ? 
To our fair bridal ! 

Eribert. Lady, let your will 

Appoint each circumstance. I am too bless'd, 
Proving my homage thus. 

Vittoria. Why, then, 'tis mine 

To rule the glorious fortunes of the day. 
And I may be content. Yet much remains 
For thought to brood on, and I would be left 
Alone with my resolves. Kind Eribert ! 
(Whom I command so absolutely,) now 
Part we a few brief hours ; and doubt not, when 
I am at thy side once more, but I shall stand 
There — to the last. 

Eribert. Your smiles are troubled, lady; 

May they ere long be brighter !— Time will seem 
Slow till the Vesper-bell. 

Vittoria. 'Tis lover's phrase 

To say— Time lags ; and therefore meet for you : 
But with an equal pace the hour moves on. 
Whether they bear, on their swift silent wing, 
Pleasure or— fate. 

Eribert. Be not so full of thought 

On such a day. — Behold, the skies themselves 
Look on my joy with a triumphant smile, 
Unshadow'd by a cloud. 

Vittoria. 'Tis very meet 

That Heaven (which loves the just) should wear a 

smile 
In honour of his fortunes. — Now, my lord. 
Forgive me if I say, farewell, until 
Th' appointed hour. 

Eribert. Lady, a brief farewell. 

^Exeunt separately. 



Scene II. — The Sea-Shore. 
Procida, Raimond. 

Procida. And dost thou still refuse to share the 

glory 
Of this, our daring enterprise ? 

Raimond. Oh, father! 

I, too, have dreamt of glory, and the word 
Hath to my soul been as a trumpet's voice. 
Making my nature sleepless. — But the deeds 
Whereby 't was won, the high exploits, whose tale 
Bid's the heart burn, were of another cast 
Than such as thou requirest. 

Procida. Every deed 

Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim 
The Freedom of our country ; and the sword 
Alike is honour'd in the patriot's hand, 
Searching 'midst warrior-hosts, the heart which 

gave 
Oppression birth; or flashing through the gloom 
Of the still chamber, o'er its troubled couch. 
At dead of night. 
Raimond {turning away.) There is no path but 

one 
For noble natures. 

Procida. Wouldst thou ask the man 

Who to the earth hath dash'd a nation's chains, 
Rent as with Heaven's own lightning, by what 

means 
The glorious end was won ?— Go, swell with th' 

acclaim ; 
Bid the deliverer, hail ! and if his path 
To that most bright and sovereign destiny 
Hath led o'er trampled thousands, be it calJ'd' 
A stern necessity, but not a crime ! 
Raimond. Father ! my soul yet kindles at the 

thought 
Of nobler lessons, in my boyhood learn 'd 
Ev'n from thy voice. — The high remembrances 
Of other days are stirring in the heart 
Where thou didst plant them ; and they speak of 

men 



152 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Who needed no vain sophistry to gild 

Acts, that would bear Heaven's light.— And such 

be mine! 
Oh, father ! is it yet too late to draw 
The praise and blessing of all valiant hearts 
On our most righteous cause ? 

Procida. What wouldst thou do ? 

Raimond. I would go forth, and rouse th' indig- 
nant land 
To generous combat. Why should Freedom strike 
Mantled with darkness? — Is there not more 

strength 
Ev'n in the waving of her single arm 
Than hosts can wield against her?— /would rouse 
That spirit, whose fire doth press resistless on 
To its proud sphere, the stormy field of fight ! 

Procida. Ay ! and give time and warning to the 
foe 
To gather all his might : — It is too late. 
There is a work to be this eve begun, 
When rings the Vesper-bell; and, long before 
To-morrow's sun hath reach'd i' th' noonday 

heaven 
His throne of burning glory, every sound 
Of the Provencal tongue within our walls. 
As by one thunderstroke— (you are pale, my son)— 
Shall be for ever silenced. 

Raimond. What ! such sounds 

As falter on the lip of infancy. 
In its imperfect utterance? or are breathed 
By tlie fond mother, as she lulls her babe ? 
Or in sweet hymns, upon the twilight air 
Pour'd by the timid maid ? — Must all alike 
Be still'd in death ; and wouldst thou tell my heart 
There is no crime in this ? 

Procida. Since thou dost feel 

Such horror of our purpose, in thy power 
Are means that might avert it. 

Raimond. Speak ! Oh speak ! 

Procida. How would those rescued thousands 
bless thy name, 
Shouldst thou betray us ! 

Raimond. Father I I can bear — 

Ay, proudly woo — the keenest questioning 
Of thy soul-gifted eye; which almost seems 
To claim a part of Heaven's dread royalty, 
— The power that searches thought! 

Procida {after a pause.) Thou hast a brow 

Clear as the day — and yet I doubt thee, Raimond! 
Whether it be that I have learn'd distrust 
From a long look through man's deep-folded heart ; 
Whether my paths have been so seldom cross'd 
By honour and fair mercy, that they seem 
But beautiful deceptions, meeting thus 
My unaccustom'd gaze ;— howe'er it be — 
I doubt thee!— See thou waver not — take heed. 
Time lifts the veil from all things! 

[Exit Procida. 

Raimond. And 'tis thus 

Vouth fades from ofTour spirit ; and the robes 
Of beauty and of majesty, wherewith 
We clothed our idols, drop ! — Oh ! bitter day, 
When at the crushing of our glorious world. 
We start, and find men thus ! — Yet be it so! 
Is not my soul still powerful, in itse/f 
To realize its dreams ? — Ay, shrinking not 
From the pure eye of heaven, my brow may well 
Undaunted meet my father's. — But, away ! 
Thou shalt be saved, sweet Constance ! — Love is 

yet 
Mightier than vengeance. [Exit Raimond. 



Scene III. — Gardens of a Palace. 
Constance, alone. 

Constance. There was a time when my thoughts 
wander'd not 
Beyond these fairy scenes! when but to catch 
The languid fragrance of the southern breeze 
From the rich flowering citrons, or to rest, 
Dreaming of some wild legend, in the shade 
Of the dark laurel-foliage, was enough 
Of happiness.— How have these calm delights 
Fled from before one passion, as the dews, 



The delicate gems of morning, are exhaled 
By the great sun ! 

(R.iiMOND enters.) 
Raimond! oh! now thou 'rt come, 
I read it in thy look, to say farewell 
For the last time — the last ! 

Raimond. No, best beloved ! 

I come to tell thee there is now no power 
To part us but in death. 

Constance. I have dreamt of joy, 

But never aught like this. — Speak yet again I 
Say, we shall part no more ! 

Raimond. No more, if love 

Can strive with darker spirits, and he is strong 
In his immortal nature ! all is changed 
Since last we met. My father — keep the tale 
Secret from all, and most of all, my Constance, 
From Eribert — my father is return'd : 
I leave thee not. 

Constance. Thy father ! blessed sound ! 
Good angels be his guard ! — Oh ! if he knew 
How my soul clings to thine, he could not hate 
Even a Provencal maid ! — Thy father! — now 
Thy soul will be at peace, and I shall see 
The sunny happiness of earlier days 
Look from thy brow once more ! — But how is this ? 
Thine eye reflects not the glad soul of mine ; 
And in thy look is that which ill befits 
A tale of joy. 

Raimond. A dream is on my soul. 
I see a slumberer, crown'd with flowers, and 

smiling 
As in delighted visions, on the brink 
Of a dread chasm ; and this strange phantasy 
Hath cast so deep a shadow o'er my thoughts, 
I cannot but be sad. 

Constance. Why, let me sing 

One of the sweet wild strains you love so well, 
And this will banish it. 

Raimond. It may not be. 

Oh ! gentle Constance, go not forth to-day : 
Such dreams are ominous. 

Constance. Have you then forgot 

My brother's nuptial feast? — I must be one 
Of the gay train attending to the shrine 
His stately bride. In sooth, my step of joy 
Will print earth lightly now. — What fear'st thou, 

love ? 
Look all around! the blue transparent skies, 
And sunbeams pouring a more buoyant life 
Through each glad thrilling vein, will brightly 

chase ^ 

All thought of evil. — Why, the very air 
Breathes of delight! — Through all its glowing 

realms 
Doth music blend with fragrance, and e'en here 
The city's voice of jubilee is heard. 
Till each light leaf seems trembling unto sounds 
Of human joy ! 

Raimond. There lie far deeper things, — 
Things that may darken thought for life, beneath 
That city's festive semblance — I have pass'd 
Through the glad multitudes, and I have mark'd 
A stern intelligence in meeting eyes. 
Which deem'd their flash unnoticed, and a quick, 
Suspicious vigilance, too intent to clothe 
Its mien with carelessness ; and now and then, 
A hurrying start, a whisper, or a hand 
Pointing by stealth to some one, singled out 
Amidst the reckless throng. O'er all is spread 
A mantling flush of revelry, which may hide 
Much from unpractised eyes; but lighter signs 
Have been prophetic oft. 

Constance. I tremble ! — Raimond ! 

What may these things portend ? 

Raimond. It was a day 

Of festival, like this ; the city sent 
Up through her sunny firmament a voice 
Joyous as now ; when, scarcely heralded 
By one deep moan, forth from his cavernous depths 
Tile earthquake burst ; and the vpide splendid 

scene 
Became one chaos of all fearful things, 
Till the brain whirl'd, partaking the sick motion 
Of rocking palaces. 



VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



153 



Constance. And then didst thou, . 

My noble Kaimond ! through the dreadful paths 
Laid open by destruction, past the chasms, 
Whose fathomless clefts, a moment's work, had 

given 
One burial unto thousands, rush to save 
Thy trembling Constance ! she who lives to bless 
Thy generous love, that still the breath of Heaven 
Wafts gladness to her soul ! 

Raimond. Heaven !— Hpaven is just ! 

And being so, must guard thee, sweet one, still. 
Trust none beside.— Oh ! the omnipotent skies 
Make their wrath manifest, but insidious man 
Doth compass those he hates with secret snares, 
Wherein lies fate. Know, danger walks abroad, 
Mask'd as a reveller. Constance! oh! by all 
Our tried affection, all the vows which bind 
Our hearts together, meet me in these bowers. 
Here, I adjure thee, meet me, when the bell 
Doth sound for vesper-prayer! 

Constance. And know'st thou not 

'Twill be the bridal hour ? 

Raimond. It will not, love ! 

That hour will bring no bridal I— Naught of this 
To human ear ; but speed thou hither, fly. 
When evening brings that signal. — Dost thou 

heed ! 
This is no meeting, by a lover sought 
To breathe fond tales, and make the twilight 

groves 
And stars attest his vows ; deem thou not so, 
Therefore denying it ! — I tell thee, Constance ! 
If thou wouldst save me from sncli fierce despair 
As falls on man, beholding all he loves 
Perish before him, while his strength can but 
Strive with his agony — thou'lt meet me then? 
Look on me, love I — I am not oft so moved — 
Thou'lt meet me ? 

Constance. Oh! what mean thy words? — If then 
My steps are free, — I will. Be thou but calm. 

Raimond. Be calm !— there is a cold and sullen 
calm, 
And, were my wild fears made realities. 
It might be mine ; but, in this dread suspense. 
This conflict of all terrible plantasies. 
There is no calm. — Yet fear thou not, dear love ! 
I will watch o'er thee still. And now, farewell 
Until that hour! 

Constance. My Raimond, fare thee well. 

[Exeunt. 



Scene IV. — Room in the Citadel of Palermo. 
Alberti, De Couci. 

De Conci. Said'st thou this night ? 

Alberti. This very night— and lo I 

E'en now the sun declines. 

De Conci. What ! are they arm'd ? 

Alberti. All arm'd and strong in vengeance and 
despair. 

De Couci. Doubtful and strange the tale! Why 
was not this reveal'd before ? 

ABerli. Mistrust me not, my lord ! 

That stern and jealous Procida hath kept 
O'er all my steps, (as though he did suspect 
The purposes, which oft his eye hath sought 
To read in mine,) a watch so vigilant, 
I knew not how to warn thee, though for this 
Alone I mingled with his bands, to learn 
Their projects and their strength. Thou know'st 

my faith 
To Anjou's house full well. 

De Couci. How may we now 

Avert the gathering storm? — The viceroy holds 
His bridal feast, and all is revelry. 
— 'Twas a true-boding heaviness of heart 
Which kept me from these nuptials. 

Alberti. Thou thyself 

May'st yet escape, and, haply of thy bands 
Rescue a part, ere long to wreak full vengeance 
Upon these rebels. 'Tis too late to dream 
Of saving Eribert. E'en shouldst thou rush 
Before him with the tidings, in his pride 
And confidence of soiil, he would but laugh 
Thy tale to scorn. 

20 



Dc Cotici. He must not die unwarn'd, 

Though it be all in vain. But thou, Alberti, 
Rejoin thy comrades, lest thine absence wake 
Suspicion in their hearts. Thou hast done well, 
And shalt not pass unguerdon'd, should I live 
Through the deep horrors of th' approaching night. 
Alberti. Noble De Couci, trust me still. Anjou 
Commands no heart more faithful than Alberti's. 
[Exit Alberti. 
De Couci. The grovelling slave !— And yet he 
spoke too true ! 
For Eribert, in blind elated joy. 
Will scorn the warning voice. — The day wanes 

fast. 
And through the city, recklessly dispersed, 
Unarm'd and unprepared, my soldiers revel. 
E'en on the brink of fate. — I must away. 

l^Exil De Couci. 



Scene V. — A Banqueting Hall. 
Provencal Nobles assembled 

First Moblc. Joy be to this fair meeting !— Who 
hath seen 
The viceroy's bride ? 

Second JVbble. I saw her, as she pass'd 

The gazing throngs assembled in the city. 
'Tis said she hath not left for years, till now, 
Her castle's wood-girt solitude. 'Twill gall 
These proud Sicilians, that her wide domains 
Should be the conqueror's guerdon. 

Third JVoble. 'Twas their boast 

With what fond faith she worshipp'd still the name 
Of the boy, Conradin. How will the slaves 
Brook this new triumph of their lords ? 

Second JVoble. In sooth. 

It stings them to the quick. In the full streets 
They mix with our Provencals, and assume 
A guise of mirth, but it sits hardly on them. 
'Twere worth a thousand festivals, to see 
With what a bitter and unnatural eflbrt 
They strive to smile ! 

First JVoble. Is this Vittoria fair ? 

Second J^Toble. Of a most noble mien ; but yet 
her beauty 
Is wild and awful, and her large dark eye. 
In its unsettled glances, hath strange power, 
From which thou'lt shrink, as I did. 

First JsToble. Hush ! they come. 

Enter Eribert, Vittori.4, Constance, and others. 

Eribert. Welcome, my noble friends! — there 
must not lower 
One clouded brow to-day in Sicily ! 
Behold my bride ! 

JVnbles. Receive our homage, lady I 

Vittoria. I bid all welcome. May the feast we 
offer 
Prove worthy of such guests ! 

Eribert. Look on her, friends! 
And say> if that majestic brow is not 
Meet for a diadem ? 

Vittoria. 'Tis well, my lord ! 

When memory's pictures fade, 'tis kindly done 
To brighten their dimm'd hues ! 

First JVoble {apart.) Mark'd you her gla:nce? 

Second JVoble {apart.) What eloquent scorn was 
there ? Yet he, th' elate 
Of heart, perceives it not. 

Eribert. Now to the feast ! 

Constance, you look not joyous. I have said 
That all should smile to-day. 

Constance. Forgive me, brother . 

The heart is wayward, and its garb of pomp 
At times oppresses it. 

Eribert. Why, how is this ? 

Constance. Voices of woe, and prayers of agony 
Unto my soul have risen, and left sad sounds 
There echoing still. Yet would I fain be gay. 
Since 'tis yourwish. — In truth, I should have been 
A village-maid ! 

Eribert. But, being as you are. 

Not thus ignobly free, command your looks 



154 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



(They may be taught obedience) to reflect 
The aspect of the time. 

Vittoria. And know, fair maid ! 

That if in this unskili'd, you stand alone 
Amidst our court of pleasure. 

Eribert. To the feast ! 

Now let the red wine foam! — There should be 

mirth 
When conquerors revel!— Lords of this fair isle ! 
Your good swords' heritage, crown each bowl, and 

pledge 
The present and the future! for they both 
Look brightly on us. Dost thou smile, my bride ? 

Vittoria. Yes, Eribert !— thy prophecies of joy 
Have taught e'en me to smile. 

Eribert. 'T is well. To-day 

I have won a fair and almost royal bride ; 
To-morrow — let the bright sun spread his course, 
To waft me happiness ! — my proudest foes 
Must die — and then my slumber shall be laid 
On rose-leaves, with no envious fold, to mar 
The luxury of its visions!— Fair Vittoria, 
Your looks are troubled ! 

Vittoria. It is strange, but oft, 

'Midst festal songs and garlands, o'er my soul 
Death comes, with some dull image ! as you spoke 
Of those whose blood is claim'd, I thought for them 
Who, in a darkness thicker than the night 
E'er wove with all her clouds, have pined so long : 
How blessed were the stroke which makes them 

things 
Of that invisible world, wherein, we trust. 
There is at least no bondage ! — But should we 
From such a scene as this, where all earth's joys 
Contend for mastery, and the very sense 
Of life is rapture ; should we pass, I say, 
At once from such excitements to the void 
And silent gloom of that which doth await us— 
— Were it not dreadful ? 

Eribert. Banish such dark thoughts ! 

They ill beseem the hour. 

Vittoria. There is no hour 

Of this mysterious world, in joy or woe, 
But they beseem it well !— Why, what a slight. 
Impalpable bound is that, th' unseen, which severs 
Being from death!— And who can tell liow near 
Its misty brink he stands? 

First JVoble (aside.) What mean her words ? 

Second J^oble. There 's some dark mystery here. 

Erihert. No more of this ! 

Pour the bright juice vi^hich Etna's glowing vines 
Yield to the conquerors! And let music's voice 
Dispel these ominous dreams ! — Wake, harp and 

song ! 
Swell out your triumph ! 

A Messenger enters, bearbig a letter. 

Messenger. Pardon, my good lord ! 
But this demands 

Eribert. What means thy breathless haste ? 

And that ill-boding mien ? — Away! such looks 
Befit not hours like these. 

Messenger. The Lord De Couci 

Bade me bear this, and say, 'tis fraught with 

tidings 
Of life and death. 

Vittoria (/mrriedly.) Is this a time for aught 
But revelry ?— My lord, these dull intrusions 
Mar the bright spirit of the festal scene ! 

Eribert (to the Messenger.) Hence ! tell the Lord 
de Couci, we will talk 
Of life and death to-morrow. [Exit Messenger. 

Let there be 
Around me none but joyous looks to-day. 
And strains whose very echoes wake to mirth ! 

(./I band of the conspirators enter, to the sound of 
music, disguised as shepherds, bacchanals, ^-c.) 

Eribert. What forms are these ?— What means 
this antic triumph? 

Vittoria. 'T is but a rustic pageant, by my vassals 
Prepared to grace our bridal. Will you not 
Hear their wild music? Our Sicilian vales 
Have many a sweet and mirthful melody. 



To which the glad heart bounds. — Breathe ye some 

strain 
Meet for the time, ye sons of Sicily ! 

(One of the Masquers sings.) 

The festal eve, o'er earth and sky. 

In her sunset robe, looks bright, 
And the purple hills of Sicily, 

With their vineyards, laugh in light; 
From the marble cities of her plains, 

Glad voices mingling swell; 
— But with yet more loud and lofty strains, 

They shall hail the Vesper-bell ! 

Oh! sweet its tones, when the summer-breeze 

Their cadence wafts afar, 
To float o'er the blue Sicilian seas. 

As they gleam to the first pale star ! 
The shepherd greets them on his height, 

The hermit in his cell ; 
— But a deeper voice shall breathe, to-night, 

In the sound of tlie Vesper-bell ! 

[The Sell rings. 

Eribert. It is the hour !— Hark, hark !— my, bride, 
our summons! 
The altar is prepared and crown'd with flowers 

That wait 

Vittoria. The victim! . 

(./S tumult heard without.) 

PROciD.i and Montalb.v enter, with others, armed. 

Procida. Strike! the hour is come! 

Vittoria. Welcome, avengers, welcome ! Now 
be strong! 

(The Conspirators throw off their disguise, and rush, 
with their swords drawn, upon the Provencals. 
Eribert is wounded, and falls.) 

Procida. Now hath fate reach'd thee in thy mid 
career, 
Tliou reveller in a nation's agonies! 

(Tlie Provencals are driven off, and pursued by the 
Sicilians.) 

Constance (supporting Eribert.) My brother ! oh ! 
my brother ! 

Eribert. Have I stood 

A leader in the battle-fields of kings, 
To perish thus at last ? — Ay, by these pangs. 
And this strange chill, that heavily doth creep. 
Like a slow poison, through my curdling veins, 
This should be— death !— In sooth, a dull exchange 
For the gay bridal feast ! 

Voices (without.) Remember Conradin ! — spare 
none, spare none. 

Vittoria (throwing off her bridal wreath and orna- 
ments.) 
This is proud freedom! Now my soul may cast. 
In generous scorn, her mantle of dissembling 
To earth for ever ! — And it is such joy. 
As if a captive from his dull, cold cell. 
Might soar at once, on charter'd wing, to range 
The realms of starr'd infinity ! — Away ! 
Vain mockery of a bridal wreath ! The hour 
For which stern patience ne'er kept watch in vain 
Is come ; and I may give my bursting heart 
Full and indignant scope. — Now, Eribert! 
Believe in retribution! What, proud man ! 
Prince, ruler, conqueror ! didst thou deem Heaven 

slept? 
" Or that the unseen, immortal ministers, 
"Ranging the world, to note e'en purposed crime 
"In burning characters, had laid aside 
"Their everlasting attributes for thee?" 
— Oh ! blind security! — He, in whose dread hand 
The lightnings vibrate, holds them back, until 
The trampler of this goodly earth hath reach'd 
His pyramid-height of power; that so his fall 
May, with more fearful oracles, make pale 
Man's crown'd oppressors ! 

Constance. Oh! reproach him not! 

His soul is trembling on the dizzy brink 



VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



155 



Of that dim workl whore passion may not enter. 
Leave hira in peace. 
Voices {without.) Anjou, Anjou !— De Couci, to 

the rescue ! 
Eribert [iialf raising himself.) My brave Pro- 
vencals ! do ye combat still ? 
And I, -your chief, am here ! — Now, now I feel 
That death, indeed, is bitter! 

Vittoria. Fare thee well ! 

Thine eyes so oft, with their insulting smile, 
Have look'd on man's last pangs, tliou shouldst, 

by this. 
Be perffect how to die ! {Exit Vittoria. 

Raimond enters. 

Raimond. Away, my Constance ! 

Now is the time for flight. Our slaughtering bands 
Are scatter'd far and wide. A little while 
And thou shall be in safety. Know'st thou not 
That low sweet vale, where dwells the holy man, 
Auselmo? He whose hermitage is rear'd 
'Mid some old temple's ruins? — Round the spot 
His name hath spread so pure and deep a charm, 
'Tis hallow'd as a sanctuary, wherein 
Thou shall securely bide, till this wild storm 
Have spent its furv. Haste! 

Constance. I will not fly ! 

While in his heart there is one throb of life, 
Oiie spark in his dim eyes, I will not leave 
The brother of my youth to perish thus. 
Without one kindly bosom to sustain 
His dying head. 

Eribert. The clouds are darkening round. 
There are strange voices ringing in mine ear 
That summon me — to what ? — But I have been 
Used to command ! — Away ! I will not die 
But on the field {He dies. 

Constance {kneeling by him.) Oh Heaven ! be 
merciful, 
As thou art just! — for he is now where naught 
But mercy can avail him. — It is past ! 

GuiDO enters, with his sword drawn. 

Quido {to Raimond.) I've sought thee long- 
Why art thou lingering here? 
Haste, follow me ! — Suspicion with thy name 
Joins that word — Traitor! 

Raimond. Traitor! Guido ? 

Outdo. Yes ! 

Hast thou not lieard, that, with his men-at-arms, 
After vain conflict with a people's wrath, 
De Couci hath escaped ?— And there are those 
Who murmur that from thee the warning came 
Which saved him from our vengeance. But e'en 

yet, 
In the red current of Provencal blood. 
That doubt may be effaced. Draw thy good sword. 
And follow me ! 

Raimond. And thou couldst doubt me, Guido ! 
'Tis come to this! — Away ! inislrust me still. 
I will not stain my sword with deeds like thine. 
Thou know'st me not ! 

Guido. Raimond di Procida ! 

If thou art he whom once I deera'd so noble- 
Call me thy friend no more ! [Exit Guido. 

Raimond {after a pause.) Rise, dearest, rise ! 
Thy duty's task hath nobly been fulfill'd. 
E'en in the face of death ; but all is o'er, 
And this is now no place where nature's tears 
In quiet sanctity may freely flow. 
— Hark ! the wild sounds that wait on fearful 

deeds 
Are swelling on the winds, as the deep roar 
Of fast-advancing billows; and for thee 
I shame not thus to tremble.— Speed ! oh, speed ! 

[Exeunt. 



ACT THE FOURTH. 

Scene I. — A Street in Palermo. 

Procida enters. 

Procida. How strange and deep a stillness loads 
the air, 
As with the power of midnight! — Ay, where death 



Hath pass'd, there should be silence.— But this hush 
Of nature's heart, this breathlessness of all things, 
Doth press on thought too heavily, and the sky, 
Willi its dark robe of purple thunder-clouds 
Brooding in sullen masses, o'er my spirit 
Weighs like an omen !— Wherefore should this be ? 
Is not our task achieved, the mighty work 
Of our deliverance ? — Yes ; I should be joyous : 
But this our feeble nature, with its quick 
Instinctive superstitions, will drag down 
Th' ascending soul.— And I have fearful bodings 
That treachery lurks amongst us. — Raimond! 

Raimond! 
Oh! Guilt ne'er made a mien like his its garb! 
It cannot be ! 

Mont ALBA, Guido, and other Sicilians, enter. 

Procida. Welcome ! we meet in joy ! 
Now may we bear ourselves erect, resuming 
The kingly port of freemen ! Who shall dare 
After this proof of slavery's dread recoil. 
To weave us chains again ? — Ye have done well. 

Montalha. We have done well. Tiiere need no 
choral song. 
No shouting multitudes, to blazon forth 
Our stern exploits. — The silence of our foes 
Doth vouch enough, and they are laid to rest 
Deep as the sword could make it. Yet our task 
Is still but half achieved, since, with his bands, 
De Couci hath escaped, and, doubtless, leads 
Their footsteps to Messina, where our foes 
Will gather all their strength. Determined liearts. 
And deeds to startle earth, are yet required. 
To make the mighty sacrifice complete. — 
Where is thy son ? 

Protida. I know not. Once last night 

He cross'd my path, and with one stroke beat down 
A sword just raised to smile me, and restored 
My own, which in that deadly strife had been 
Wrench'd from my grasp: but when I would have 

prcss'd him 
To my e,\ulting bosom, he drew back', 
And with a sail, and yet a scornful smile. 
Full of strange meaning, left me. Since that hour 
I have not seen him. Wherefore didst thou ask 7 

Montalba. It matters not. We have deep things 
to speak of — 
Know'st thou that we have traitors in our coun- 
cils? 

Procida. I know some voice in secret must have 
warn'd 
De Couci ; or his scatter'd bands had ne'er 
So soon been marshall'd, and in close array 
Led hence as from the field.— Hast thou heard 

aught 
That may develop this ? 

Montalba. The guards we set 

To watch the city gales, have seized, this morn. 
One whose quick fearful glance, and hurried step, 
Betray'd his guilty purpose. Mark ! he bore 
(Amidst the tumult deeming that his flight 
Might all unnoticed pass,) these scrolls to him, 
The fugitive Provencal. Read and judge ! 

Procida. Where is this messenger? 

Montalba. Where should he be ? — 

They slew him in their wrath. 

Procida. Unwisely done ! 

Give me the scrolls. [He reads. 

Now, if there be such things 
As may to death add sharpness, yet delay 
The pang which gives release ; if there be power 
In execration, to call down the fires 
Of yon avenging heaven, whose rapid shafts 
But for such guilt were aimless ; be they heap'd 
Upon the traitor's head ! — Scorn make his name 
Her mark for ever ! 

Montalba. In onr passionate blindness. 

We send forth curses, whose deep stings recoil 
Oft on ourselves. 

Procida. Whate'er fate hath of ruin 

Fall on his house ! — What ! to resign again 
That freedom for whose sake our souls have now 
Eugrain'd themselves in blood ! — Why, who is he 
That hath devised this treachery ?— To the scroll 
Why fix'd he not his name, so stamping it 



156 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



With an immortal infamy, whose brand 

Might warn men from him ? — Wiio should be so 

vile? 
Alberti ? — In his eye is that which ever 
Shrinks from encountering mine! — But no! his 

race 
Is of our noblest — Oh ! he could not shame 
That high descent !— Urbiiio ?— Conti ?— No I 
They are too deeply pledged. — There's one name 

more ! 
— I cannot utter it ! — Now shall I read 
Each face with cold suspicion, which doth blot 
From man's high mien its native royalty, 
And seal his noble forehead with the impress 
Of its own vile imaginings! — Speak your thoughts, 
Montalba ! Guido I— Wlio should this man be 7 

Montalba. Why, what Sicilian youth unsheathed 
last night 
His sword to aid our foes, and turn'd its edge 
Against his country's chiefs— He that did this. 
May well be deem'd for guiltier treason ripe. 

Procida. And who is he ? 

Montalba. Nay, ask thy son. 

Procida. My son ! 

What should he know of such a recreant heart? 
Speak, Guido ! thoa'rt his friend ! 

Guido. I would not wear 

The brand of such a name ! 

Procida. How ? what means this ? 

A flash of light breaks in upon my soul ! 
Is it to blast me ? — Yet the fearful doubt 
Hath crept in darkness through my thoughts before, 
And been flung from them.— Silence !— Speak not 

yet! 
I would be calm, and meet the thunder-burst 
With a strong heart. | j3 pause. 

Now, what have I to hear ? 
Your tidings? 

Ouido. Briefly, 'twas your son did thus : 

He hath disgraced your name. 

Procida. My son did thus! 

Are thy words oracles, that I should search 
Their hidden meaning out ? — What did my son ? 
I have forgot the tale. — Repeat it, quick ! 

Ouido. 'Twill burst upon thee all too soon. 
While we 
Were busy at the dark and solemn rites 
Of retribution ; while we bathed the earth 
In red libations, which will consecrate 
The soil they mingled with to freedom's step 
Through the long march of ages ; 'twas his task 
To shield from danger a Provencal maid. 
Sister of him whose cold oppression stung 
Our hearts to madness. 

Montalba. What ! should she be spared 

To keep that name from perishing on earth ? 
— I cross'd them in their path, and raised my sword 
To smite her in her champion's arms. — We fought. 
The boy disarm'd me! — And I live to tell 
My shame, and wreak my vengeance ! 

Guido. Who but he 

Could warn De Couci, or devise the guilt 
These scrolls reveal ?— Hath not the traitor still 
Sought, with his fair and specious eloquence. 
To win us from our purpose? — All things seem 
Leagued to unmask him. 

Montalba. Know you not there came. 

E'en in the banquet's hour, from this De Couci, 
One, bearing unto Eribert the tidings 
Of all our purposed deeds ? — And have we not 
Proof, as the noon-day clear, that Raimond loves 
The sister of that tyrant ? 

Procida. There was one 

Who mourn'd for being childless ! — Let him now 
Feast o'er his children's graves, and I will join 
The revelry ! 

Montalba (apart.) You shall be childless too ! 

Procida. Was't you, Montalba? — Now rejoice, 
I say! 
There is no name so near you, that its stains 
Should call the fever'd and indignant blood 
To your dark cheek !— But I will dash to earth 
The weight that presses on my heart, and then 
Be glad as thou art. 

Montalba. What means this, my lord? 

Who hath seen gladness on Montalba's mien ? 



Procida. Why, should not all be glad who have 
no sons 
To tarnish their bright name ? 

Montalba. I am not used 

To bear with mockery. 

Procida. Friend ! By yon high Heaven, 

I mock thee not !— 'T is a proud fate, to liv« 
Alone and unallied.— Why, what's alone? 
A word whose sense is— free ! — Ay, free from all 
The venom'd stings implanted in the heart 
By those it loves.— Oh ! I could laugh to think 
O' th' joy that riots in baronial halls, 
When the word comes — " A son is born !" — A son! 
—They should say thus—" He that shall knit your 

brow 
To furrows, not of years ; and bid your eye 
Quail its proud glance, to tell the earth its shame, 
Is born, and so rejoice !" — then might we feast. 
And know the cause !— Were it not excellent ? 

Montalba. This is all idle. There are deeds to do: 
Arouse thee, Procida ! 

Procida. Why, am I not 

Calm as immortal Justice ?— She can strike. 
And yet be passionless — and thus will I. 
I know thy meaning.— Deeds to do ! — 't is well. 
They shall be done ere thought on.— Go ye forth : 
There is a youth Vifho calls himself my son. 
His name is — Raimond — in his eye is light 
That shows like truth— but be not ye deceived ! 
Bear him in chains before us. We will sit 
To-day in judgment, and the skies shall see 
The strength which girds our nature.— Will not 

this 
Be glorious, brave Montalba?— Linger not. 
Ye tardy messengers ! for there are things 
Which ask the speed of storms. 

[Exeunt Guido and others. 
Is not this well? 

Montalba. 'T is noble. Keep thy spirit to this 
proud height, 
(a.Hdc.) And then— be desolate like me ! — my woes 
Will at the thought grow light. 

Procida. What now remains 

To be prepared ? — There should be solemn pomp 
To grace a day like this.— Ay, breaking hearts 
Require a drapery to conceal their throbs 
From cold inquiring eyes ; and it must be 
Ample and rich, that so their gaze may not 
Explore what lies beneath. [JExit Procida. 

Mojitalba. Now this is well ! 

—I hate this Procida; for he hath won 
In all our councils that ascendency 
And mastery o'er bold hearts, which should have 

been 
Mine by a thousand claims.— Had he the strength 
Of wrongs like mine?— No! for that name—his 

country — 
He strikes—?;)?/ vengeance hath a deeper fount : 
But tliere 's dark joy in this !— And fate hath barr'd 
My soul from every other. \_Exit Montalba. 



Scene II. — ./? Hermitage surrounded by the Ruins 
of an Ancient Temple. 

Constance, Anselmo. 

Constance 'Tis strange he comes not! — Is not 
this the still 
And sultry hour of noon"? — He should have been 
Here by the day-break. — Was there not a voice ? 
— " No ! 't is the shrill Cicada, with glad life 
Peopling these marble ruins, as it sports 
Amidst them, in the sun." — Hark ! yet again ! 
No ! no ! — Forgive me, father ! that I bring 
Earth's restless griefs and passions, to disturb 
The stillness of thy holy solitude . 
My heart is full of care. 

Anselmo. There is no place 

So hallow'd, as to be unvisited 
By mortal cares. Nay, whither should we go. 
With our deep griefs and passions, but to scenes 
Lonely and still ; where he that made our hearts 
Will speak to them in whispers ? I have known 
Affliction too, my daughter. 



VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



157 



Constance. Hark ! his step ! 

I know it well— he comes— my Raimond, welcome ! 

ViTTORiA enters, Constance shrinks bade on per- 
ceioing her. 

Oh, Heaven ! that aspect tells a fearful tale. 

Vittoria (not ohsercing her.) There is a cloud of 
horror on my soul ; 
And. on thy words, Anselnio, peace doth wait, 
Kven as an echo, following the sweet close 
Of some divine and solemn harmony : 
Therefore I sought thee now. Oh ! speak to me 
Of holy things and names, in whose deep sound 
Is power to bid the tempests of the heart 
Sink, like a storm rebuked. 

Jinselmo. What recent grief 

Darkens thy spirit thus 1 

Vittoria. , , I said not grief. 

We should rejoice to-day, but joy is not 
That which it hath been. In the flowers which 

wi'eathe 
Its mantling cup, there is a scent unknown. 
Fraught with strange delirium. All things now 
Have changed their nature : still, I say rejoice ! 
There is a cause, Anselrao ! — We are free, 
Free and avenged ! — Yet on my soul there hangs 
A darkness, heavy as th' oppressive gloom 
Of midnight phantasies.— Ay, for this, too,, 
There is a cause. 

Anselmo. How say'st thou, we are free ? 

There may have raged, within Palermo's walls. 
Some brief wild tumult, but too well 1 know 
They call the stranger lord. 

Vittoria. Who calls the dead 

Conqueror or lord ? — Hush ! breathe it not aloud, 
The wild winds must not hear it ! — Yet, again, 
I tell thee, we are free ! 

jinselmo. Thine eye hath look'd 

On fearful deeds, for still their shadows hang 
O'er its dark orb. — Speak! I adjure thee, say, 
How hath this work been wrought ? 

Vittoria. Peace ! ask me not ! 

Why shouldst thoti hear a tale to send thy blood 
Back on its fount? — We cannot wake them now ! 
The storm is in my soul, but they are all 
At rest !— Ay, sweetly may the slaughter'd babe 
By its dead mother sleep; and warlike men, 
VVho 'midst the slain have slumber'd oft before, 
Making the shield their pillow, may repose 
Well, now their toils are done. — Is't not enough? 

Constance. Merciful Heaven ! have such things 
been ? And yet 
There is no shade come o'er the laughing sky! 
— I am an outcast now. 

.dnselmo. O thou, whose ways 

Clouds mantle fearfully ; of all the blind. 
But terrible ministers that work thy wrath. 
How much is man the fiercest!— Others know 
Their limits — Yes! the earthquakes, and the 

storms. 
And the volcanoes ! — He alone o'erleaps 
The bounds of retribution ! — Couldst thou gaze, 
Vittoria ! with thy woman's heart and eye. 
On such dread scenes unmoved? 

Vittoria. Was it for me 

To stay t h' avenging sword ? — No, though it pierced 
My very soul ! — Hark ! hark ! what thrilling shrieks 
Ring through the air around me! — Canst thou not 
Bid them be hush'd ? — Oh ! look not on me thus ! 

Jinselmo. Lady ! thy thoughts lend sternness to 
the looks 
Which are but sad !— Have all then perish'd? all? 
Was there no mercy I 

Vittoria. Mercy ! it hath been 

A word forbidden as th' unhallow'd names 
Of evil powers. — Yet one there was who dared 
To own the guilt of pity, and to aid 
The victims ! but in vain. — Of him no more 1 
He is a traitor, and a traitor's death 
Will be his meed. 

Constance (coming forward.) Oh, Heaven ! — his 
name, his name ! 
Is it— it cannot be ! 

Vittoria (starting.) Thou here, pale girl ! 



I deem'd thee with the dead! — How hast thou 

'scaped 
The snare !— Who saved thee, last of all thy race ! 
Was it not he of whom I spake e'en now, 
Raimond di Procida ?^^ 

Constance. It is epough. 

Now the storm breaks upon me, and I sink. 
Must he too die ? 

Vittoria. Is it e'en so ?— Why then, 

Live on— thou hast the arrow at thy heart I 
" Fi.x not on me thy sad reproachful eyes," 
1 mean not to betray thee. Thou may'st live ! 
Why should death bring thee his oblivious balms ! 
//e visits but the happy. — Didst thou ask 
If Raimond too must die ?— It is as sure 
As that his blood is on thy head, for thou 
Didst win him to this treason. 

Constance. When did men 

Call mercy, treason?— Take ray life, but save 
My noble Raimond ! 

Vittoria. Maiden ! he must die. 

E'en now the youth before his judges stands, 
And they are men, who, to the voice of prayer, 
Are as the rock is to the murmur'd sigh 
Of' summer- waves ! ay, though a. father sit 
On their tribunal. Bend thou not to me. 
What wouldst thou ? 

Constance. Mercy !— Oh ! wert thou to plead 
But with a look, e'en yet he might be saved ! 
If thou hast ever loved . 

Vittoria. If I have loved ? 

It is that love forbids me to relent ; 
I am what it hath made me. — O'er my soul 
Lightning hath pass'd, and sear'd it. Could I weep, 
I then might pity— but it will not be. 

Constance. Oh ! thou wilt yet relent, for wo- 
man's heart 
Was form'd to suffer and to melt. 

Vittoria. Away I 

Why should I pity thee ?— Thou wilt but prove 
What I have known before — and yet I live ! 
Nature is strong, and it may all be borne— 
The sick impatient yearning of the heart 
For that which is not ; and the weary sense 
Of the dull void, wherewith our homes have been 
Circled by death ; yes, all things may be borne! 
All, save remorse.— But I will 7iot bow down 
My spirit to that dark power : — there was no guilt I 
Anselmo! vvherefore didst thou talk of guilt? 

Jinselmo. Ay, thus doth sensitive conscience 
quicken thought, 
Lending reproachful voices to a breeze. 
Keen lightning to a look. 

Vittoria. Leave me in peace ! 

Is't not enough that I should have a sense 
Of things thou canst not see, all -wild and dark, 
And of unearthly whispers, haunting me 
With dread suggestions, but that t/iy'coM words, 
Old man, should gall me, too?— Must all conspire 
Against me? — Oh! thou beautiful spirit ! wont 
To shine upon my dreams with looks of love. 
Where art thou vanish'd ?— Was it not the thought 
Of thee which urged me to tlft fearful task, 
And wilt thou now forsake me? — I must seek 
The shadowy woods again, for there, perchance. 
Still may thy voice be in my twilight-paths ; 
— Here I but meet despair ! 

{Exit Vittoria. 

Anselmo (to Constance.) Despair not thoti. 
My daughter ! — he that purifies the heart 
V\^ith grief, will lend it strength. 

Constance (endeavouring to rouse herself.) Did 
she not say 
That some one was to die ? 

Anselmo. I tell thee not. 

Thy pangs are vaio — for nature will have way 
Earth must have tears ; yet in a heart like thine, 
Faith may not yield its place. 

Constance. Have I not heard 

Some fearful tale ?— Who said, that there should 

rest 
Blood on my soul ? — What blood ?— I never bore 
Hatred, kind father, unto aught that breathes ; 
Raimond doth know it well.— Raimond ! — High 
Heaven, 



158 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



It bursts upon ine now !— and he must die ! 
For my sake — e'en for mine ! 

Anselmo. Her words were strange, 

And lier proud mind seem'd half to frenzy wrought 
—Perchance this may not be. 

Constance. It mvst not be. 

Why do I linger here ? {She rises to depart.) 

Anselmo. Where wouldst thou go? 

Constance. To give their stern and unrelenting 
hearts 
A victim in his stead. 

Jinselvio. Stay ! wouldst thou rush 

On certain death ? 

Constance. I may not falter now. 

—Is not the life of woman all bound up 
In her affections?— What hath she to do 
In this bleak world alone ?— It may be well 
For 7nan on his triumphal course to move, 
Uncumber'd by soft bonds; but we were born 
For love and grief. 

Mnselmo. Thou fair and gentle thing, 

Unused to meet a glance which doth not speak 
Of tenderness or homage! how shouldst thou 
Bear the hard aspect of unpitying men, 
Or face the king of terrors ? 

Constance. There is strength 

Deep bedded in our hearts, of which we reck 
But little, till the shafts of heaven have pierced 
Its fragile dwelling.— Must not earth be rent 
Before her gems are found ?— Oh ! now I feel 
Worthy the generous love which hath not shunn'd 
To look on death for me!— My heart hath given 
Birth to as deep a courage, and a faith 
As high in its devotion. [Exit Constance. 

Anselmo. She is gone! 

Is it to perish?— God of mercy! lend 
Power to my voice, that so its prayer may save 
This pure and lofty creature !— I will follow- 
But her young footstep and heroic heart 
Will bear her to destruction faster far 
Than I can track her path. \Exit Anselmo. 



Scene III. — Hall of a Public Building. 

Procida, Montalba, Guido, and others, seated as 
on a Triiuiial. 
Procida. The morn lower'd darkly, but the sun 
hath now 
With fierce and angry splendour, through the clouds 
Burst forth, as if impatient to behold 
This, our high triumph.— Lead the prisoner in. 

(Raimond is brought in, fettered and guarded.) 
Why, what a bright and fearless brow is here ! 
—Is this man guilty ?— Look on him, Montalba I 

Montalba. Be lii'm. Should justice falter at a 
look ? 

Procida. No, thou say'st well. Her ej'es are 
filleted. 
Or should be so. Thou, that dost call thyself— 
—But no ! I will not breathe a traitor's name- 
Speak ! thou art arraign'd of treason. 

Raimond. I arraign 

You, before whom I stand, of darker guilt. 
In the briffht face of Heaven ; and your own hearts 
Give echo'to the charge. Your very looks 
Have ta'en the stamp of crime, and seem to shrink, 
With a perturb'd and haggard wildness, back 
From the too-searching light. — Why, what hath 

wrought 
This change on noble brows ?— There is a voice 
With a deep answer, rising from the blood 
Your hands have coldly shed!— Ye are of those 
From whom just men recoil, with curdling veins, 
All thrill'd by life's abhorrent consciousness. 
And sensitive feeling of a murderer's presence. 

Away! come down from your tribunal-seat. 

Put off your robes of state, and let your mien 
Be pale and humbled ; for ye bear about you 
That which repugnant earth doth sicken at. 
More than the pestilence.— That I should live 
To see my father shrink ! 

Procida. Montalba, speak! 

There's something chokes my voice— but fear me 
not. 



Montalba. If we must plead to vindicate our acts, 
Be it when thou hast made thine own look clear ; 
Most eloquent youth.! What answer canst thou 

make 
To this our charge of treason ? 

Raimond. I will plead 

That cause before a mightier judgment-throne, 
Where mercy is not guilt. But here, I feel 
Too buoyantly the glory and the joy 
Of my free spirit's whiteness ; for e'en now 
Th' embodied hideousness of crime doth seem 
Before me glaring out. — Why, I saw thee. 
Thy fool upon an aged vi'arrior's breast. 
Trampling out nature's last convulsive heavings. 
— And thou — thy sword — Oh, valiant chief! — is yet 
Red from the noble stroke which pierced, at once, 
A mother and the babe, whose little life 
Was from her bosom drawn ! — Immortal deeds 
For bards to hymn ! 

Guido {aside.) I look upon his mien, 
And waver. — Can it be? — My boyish heart 
Deem'd him so noble once ! — Away, weak 

thoughts ! 
Why should I shrink, as if the guilt were mine. 
From his proud glance ? 

Procida. Oh, thou dissembler ! thou. 

So skiird to clothe with virtue's generous flush 
The hollow cheek of cold hypocrisy, 
That, with thy guilt made manifest, I can scarce 
Believe thee guilty ! — look on me, and say 
Whose was the secret warning voice, that saved 
De Couci with his bands, to join our foes, 
And forge new fetters for th' indignant land ? 
Whose was this treachery ? {Shows him papers.) 
Who hath promised here, 
(Belike to appease the manes of the dead,) 
At midnight to unfold Palermo's gates. 
And welcome in the foe ? — Who hath done this, 
But thou, a tyrant's friend ? 

Raimond. Who hath done this? 

Father ! — if I may call thee by that name — 
Look, with thy piercing eye, on those whose smiles 
Were masks that hid their daggers. — There, per- 
chance, 
May lurk what loves not light too strong. For me, 
I know but this — there needs no deep research 
To prove the truth — that murderers may be traitors 
Ev'n to each other. 

Procida {to Montalba.) His unaltering cheek 
Still vividly doth hold its natural hue. 
And his eye quails not ! — Is this innocence ? 

Mo7italha. No! 'tis th' unshrinking hardihood 
of crime. 
— Thou bear'st a gallant mien ! — But where is she 
Whom thou hast barter'd fame and life to save. 
The fair Provencal maid ? — What ! know'st thou 

not 
That this alone were guilt, to death allied? 
Was't not our law that he who spared a foe, 
(And is she not of that detested race ?) 
Should thenceforth be amongst us as a foe ? 
— Where hast thou borne her ?— speak ! 

Raimond. That Heaven, whose eye 

Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance, 
Is with her : she is safe. 

Procida. And by that word 

Thy doom is seal'd.— Oh God ! that I had died 
Before this bitter hour, in the full strength 
And glory of my heart ! 

Constance enters, and rushes to Raimond. 

Constance. Oh ! art thou found ? 

—But yet, to find thee thus !— Chains, chains for 

thee ! 
My brave, my noble love !— Off with these bonds; 
Le't him be free as air : — for I am come 
To be your victim now. 

Raimond. Death has no pang 

More keen than this.— Oh ! wherefore art thou 

here ? 
I could have died so calmly, deeming thee 
Saved, and at peace. 

Constance. At peace !— And thou hast thought 
Thus poorly of my love !— But woman's breast 
Hath strength to suffer too.— Thy father sits . 
On this tribunal ; Raimond, which is he ? 



VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



159 



Raimond. My father ! who hath lull'd. thy gentle 
heart 
With that false hope ? — Beloved ! gaze around — 
See, if thine eye can trace a father's soul 
In the dark looks bent on us. 

Constance {after earnestly examining' the counte- 
nances of thejudgeSyfalls at the feet of Procida.) 
Thou art he ! 
Nay, turn thou not away ! for I beheld 
Thy proud lip quiver, and a watery mist 
Pass o'er thy troubled eye ; and then I knew 
Thou wert his father ! — Spare him ! take my life ! 
In truth a worthless sacrifice for his. 
But yet mine all,— Oh ! he hath still to run 
A long bright race of glory. 

Raimond. Constance, peace ! 

I look upon thee, and my failing heart 
Is as a broken reed. 

Constance {still addressing Procida.) Oh, yet 
relent ! 
If 'twas his crime to rescue me, behold 
I come to be the atonement ! Let him live 
To crown thine age with honour. —In thy heart 
There's a deep conflict; but great Nature pleads 
With an o'ermastering voice, and thou wilt yield ! 
— Thou art his father ! 

Procida {after a pause.) Maiden , thou 'rt deceived ! 
I am as calm as that dead pause of nature 
Ere the full thunder bursts. — A judge is not 
Father or friend. Who calls this man my son ? 
—My son ! — Ay ! thus his mother proudly smiled — 
But she was noble ! — Traitors stand alone. 
Loosed from all ties. — Why should I trifle thus? 
— Bear her away ! 

Raimond {starting forward.) And whither ? 

Montalba. Unto death. 

Why should she live when all her race have 
perish'd ? 

Constance {sinking into the arms of Raimond.) 
Raimond, farewell ! — Ohl when thy star hath risen 
To its bright noon, forget not, best beloved, 
I died for thee ! 

Raimond. High Heaven ! thou seest these things, 
And yet endur'st them ! — Shalt thou die for ine. 
Purest and loveliest being ?— but our fate 
May not divide us long. — Her cheek is cold — 
Herdeepblue eyes are closed— Should this bedeath! 
— If thus, there yet were mercy ! — Father, father ! 
Is thy heart human ? 

Procida. Bear her hence, I say ! 

Why must my soul be torn ? 

Anselmo enters, holding a Crucifix. 

Jlnselmo. Now, by this sign 

Of Heaven's prevailing love, ye shall not harm 
One ringlet of her head.— How! is there not 
Enough of blood upon your burthen'd souls? 
Will not the visions of your midnight couch 
Be wild and dark enough, but ye must heap 
Crime upon crime ? — Be ye content : your dreams. 
Your councils, and your banquetings, will yet 
Be haunted by the voice which doth not sleep. 
E'en though this maid be spared! — Constance, 

look up! 
Thou Shalt not die. 

Raimond. Oh ! death e'en now hath veil'd 

The light of her soft beauty. — Wake, my love ! 
Wake at my voice ! 

Procida. Anselmo, lead her hence. 

And let her live, but never meet my sight. 
— Begone!— my heart will burst. 

Raimond. One last embrace ! 

— Again life's rose is opening on her cheek ; 
Yet must we part.— So love is crush'd on earth! 
But there are brighter worlds! — Farewell, farewell! 
{He gives her to the care 0/ Anselmo.) 

Constance {slowly recovering.) There was a voice 
which call'd me.— Am I not 
A spirit freed from earth •?— Have I not pass'd 
The bitterness of death ? 

.Anselmo. Oh, haste away! 

Constance. Yes ! Raimond calls me.— He too is 
released 
From his cold bondage.— We are free at last. 
And all is well.— Away ! 

(57(6 is led out by Anselmo. 



Raimond. The pang is o'er, 

And I have but to die. 

Montalba. Now, Procida, 

Comes thy great task. Wake! summon to thine aid 
All thy deep soul's commanding energies ; 
For thou — a chief among us— nmst pronounce 
The sentence of thy son. It rests with thee. 

Procida. Ha ! ha I — Men's hearts should be of 
softer mould 
Than in the elder time. — Fathers could doom 
Their children tlten with an unfaltering voice, 
And we must tremble thus ! — Is it not said 
That nature grows degenerate, earth being now 
So full of days ? 

Montalba. Rouse up thy mighty heart. 

Procida. Ay, thou say'st right. There yet are 
souls which tower 
As landmarks to mankind.— Well, what's the task ? 
— There is a man to be condemn'd, you say ? 
Is he then guilty? 

All. Thus we deem of him 

With one accord. 

Procida. And hath he naught to plead ? 

Raimond. Naught but a soul unstain'd. 

Procida. Why, that is little. 

Stains on the soul are but as conscience deems 

them. 
And conscience — may be sear'd. — But, for this 

sentence ! 
— Was't not the penalty imposed on man, - 
E'en from creation's dawn, that he must die ? 
— It was : thus making guilt a sacrifice 
Unto eternal justice ; and we but 
Obey Heaven's mandate, when we cast dark souls 
To 111' elements from among us. — Be it so ! 
Such be his doom ! — I have said. Ay, now my 

heart 
Is girt with adamant, whose cold weight doth press 
Its gaspings down. — Oft'! let me breathe in freedom! 
— Mountains are on my breast ! {He sinks back.) 

Montalba. Guards, bear the prisoner 

Back to his dungeon. 

Raimond. Father ! oh, look up ; 

Thou art my father still ! 

Ouido {leaving the tribunal, throws hiviselfon the 
neck of Raimond.) Oh ! Raimond, Raimond ! 
If it should be that I have wrong'd thee, say 
Thou dost forgive me. 

Raimond. Friend of my young days, 

So may all-pitying Heaven ! {Raimond is led out.) 

Procida. Whose voice was that ? 

Where is he? — gone? — now I may breathe once 

more 
In the free air of heaven. Let us away. 

[Exeunt omnes. 



ACT THE FIFTH. 

Scene I. — j1 Prison, dimly lighted. 

Raimond sleeping. Procida enters. 

Procida {gazing upon Mm earnestly.} Can he 
then sleep ?— Th' o'ershadowing night hath 
wrapt 
Earth, at her stated hours— the stars have set 
Their burning watch ; and all tilings hold their 

course 
Of wakefulness and rest ; yet hath not sleep 
Sat on mine eyelids since — but this avails not ! 
— And thus he slumbers ! — " Why, this mien doth 

seem 
As if its soul were but one lofty thought 
Of an immortal destiny !" — his brow 
Is calm as waves whereon the midnight heavens 
Are imaged silently. — Wake, Raimond, wake ! 
Thy rest is deep. 
Raimond {starting up.) My father [—Wherefore 
here ? 
I am prepared to die, yet would I not 
Fall by thy hand. 
Procida. 'Twas not for «/«s I came. 

Raimond. Then wherefore ? — and upon thy loftj 
brow 
Why burns the troubled flush ? 



IGO 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Procida. Perchance 'tis shame. 

Yes, it may well be shame ! — for I have striven 
With nature's feebleness, and been o'erpovver'd. 
— Howe'cr it be, 't is not for thee to gaze. 
Noting it thus. Rise, let me loose thy chains. 
Arise, and follow me ; but let thy step 
Fall without sound on earth: I have prepared 
The means for thy escape. 

Raimond. "What ! thou ! the austere. 

The inflexible Procida! hast thou done this, 
Deeming me guilty still ! 

Procida. Upbraid me not ! 

It is even so. There have been nobler deeds 
By Roman fathers done, — but I amvveak. 
Therefore, again I say, arise! and haste. 
For the night wanes. Thy fugitive course must be 
To realms beyond the deep ; so let us part 
In silence, and for ever. 

Raimond. Let him fly 

Who holds no deep asylum in his breast, 
Wherein to shelter from the scoffs of men ! 
— I can sleep calmly here. 

Procida. Art thou in love 

With death and infamy, that so thy choice 
Is made, lost boy ! when freedom courts thy grasp? 

Raimond. Father ! to set th' irrevocable seal 
Upon that shame wherewith ye have branded me, 
There needs but flight. — What should I bear from 

this. 
My native land ? — A blighted name, to rise 
And part me, with its dark remembrances. 
For ever from the sunshine ! — O'er my soul 
Bright shadowings of a nobler destiny 
Float in dim beauty through the gloom ; but here, 
Or) earth, my hopes are closed. 

Procida. Thy hopes are closed ! 

And what were they to mine ? — Thou wilt not fly ! 
Why, let all traitors flock to thee, and learn 
How proudly guilt can talk ! — Let fathers rear 
Their oflTspring henceforth, as the free wild birds 
Foster their young ; when these can mount alone. 
Dissolving nature's bonds — why should it not 
Be so with us ? 

Raimond. Oh, father !-^Now I feel 
What high prerogatives belong to death. 
He hath a deep though voiceless eloquence. 
To which I leave my cause. " His solemn veil 
Doth with mysterious beauty clothe our virtues, 
And in its vast oblivious folds, for ever 
Give shelter to our faults."— When I am gone. 
The mists of passion which have dimm'd my name 
Will melt like day-dreams; and my memory then 
Will be — not what it should have been — for I 
Must pass without my fame — but yet, unstain'd 
As a clear morning dew-drop. Oh ! the grave 
Hath rights inviolate as a sanctuary's. 
And they should be my own ! 

Procida. Now, by just Heaven, 

I will not thus be tortured ! — Were my heart 
But of thy guilt or innocence assured, 
I could be calm again. " But, in this wild 
Suspense — this conflict and vicissitude 
Of opposite feelings and convictions — What ! 
Hath it been mine to temper and to bend 
AH spirits to my purpose ; have I raised 
With a severe and passionless energy, 
From the dread mingling of their elements. 
Storms which haverock'd the earth?— And shall I 

now 
Thus fluctuate, as a feeble reed, the scorn 
And plaything of the winds?"— Look on me, boy ! 
Guilt never dared to meet these eyes, and keep 
Its heart's dark secret close.— Oh, pitying Hea,ven, 
Speak to my soul with some dread oracle. 
And tell me which is truth. 

Raimond. I will not plead. 

I will not call th' Omnipotent to attest 
My innocence. No, father, in thy heart 
I know my birthright shall be soon restored ; 
Therefore I look to death, and bid thee speed 
The great absolver. 

Procida. Oh ! my son, my son ! 

We will not part in wrath !— The sternest hearts. 
Within their proud and guarded fastnesses. 
Hide something still, round which their tendrils 
cling 



With a close grasp, unknown to those who dress 
Their love in smiles. And such wert thou to me ! 
The all which taught me that my soul was cast 
In nature's mould. — And I must now hold on 
My desolate course alone ! — Why, be it thus ! 
He that doth guide a nation's star, should dwell 
High o'er the clouds in regal solitude, 
Sufficient to himself 

Raimond. Yet, on the summit. 

When with her bright wings glory shadows thee. 
Forget not him who coldly sleeps beneath. 
Yet might have soar'd as high 1 

Procida. No, fear thou not ! 

Thou 'It be remember'd long. The canker-worm 
O' th' heart is ne'er forgotten. 

Raimond. " Oh ! not thus — 

I would not thus be thought of." 

Procida. Let me deem 

Again that thou art base ! — for thy bright looks, 
Thy glorious mien of fearlessness and truth. 
Then would not haunt me as th' avenging powers 
Follovi''d the parricide. — Farewell, farewell ! 
I have 10 tears. — Oh ! thus thy mother look'd, 
When, with a sad, yet half triumphant smile. 
All radiant with deep meaning, from her death-bed 
She gave thee to my arms. 

Raimond. Now death has lost 

His sting, since thou believ'st me innocent. 

Procida (wildly.) Than innocent! — Am I thy 
murderer, then ? 
Away ! I tell thee thou hast made my name 
A scorn to men ! — No ! I will not forgive thee ; 
A traitor ! — What ! the blood of Procida 
Filling a traitor's veins ? — Let the earth drink it ; 
Thou wouldst receive our foes ! — but they shall 

meet 
From thy perfidious lips a welcome, cold 
As death can make it.— Go, prepare thy soul ! 

Raimond. Father I yet hear me ! 

Procida. No! thou'rt skill'd to make 

E'en shame look fair. — Why should I linger thus ? 
[Ooing to leave the prison, he turns hack for a 
moment.) 
If there be aught — if aught — for which thou need'st 
Forgiveness — not of me, but that dread power 
From whom no heart is veil'd — delay thou not 
Thy prayer. — Time hurries on. 

Raimond. I am prepared. 

Procida. 'Tis well. \Exit Procida. 

Raimond. Men talk of torture! — Can they wi-eak 
Upon the sensitive and shrinking frame. 
Half the mind bears and lives ? — My spirit feels 
Bewilder'd ; on its powers this twilight gloom 
Hangs like a weight of earth.— It should be morn ; 
Why, then, perchance, a beam of Heaven's bright 

sun 
Hath pierced, ere now, the grating of my dungeon, 
Telling of hope and mercy ! 

[Exit into an inner cell. 



Scene II. — A street of Palermo. 
Many Citizens assembled. 

First Citizen. The morning breaks; his time is 
almost come : 
Will lie be led this way ? 

Second Citizen. Ay, so 'tis said. 

To die before that gate through which he purposed 
The foe should enter in. 

Third Citizen. 'T was a vile plot ! 

And yet I would my hands were pure as his 
From the deep stain of blood. Didst hear the sounds 
I' th' air last night? 

Second Citizen. Since the great work of slaughter, 
Who hath not heard them duly at those hours 
Which should be silent ? 

Third Citizen. Oh! the fearful mingling, 

The terrible mimicry of human voices. 
In every sound which to the heart doth speak 
Of woe and death. 

Second Citizen!. Ay, there was woman's shrill 
And piercing cry; and the low feeble wail 
Of dying infants; and the half suppress'd 
Deep groan of man in his last agonies! 



VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



161 



And now and then there swell'd upon the breeze 
Strange, savage bursts of laughter, wilder far 
Than all the rest. 

First. Citizen. Of our own fate, perchance, 
These awful midnight wailings may be deem'd 
An ominous prophecj'. — Should France regain 
Her power among us, doubt not, we shall have 
Stern reckoners to account with. — Hark ! 

(The sound of trumpets heard at a distance.) 

Second Citizen. 'T was but 

A rushing of the breeze. 

Third Citizen. E'en now, 'tis said, 

The hostile bands approach. 

{The sound is heard gradually drawing nearer.) 

Second Citizen. Again ! that sound 

Was no illusion. Nearer yet it swells — 
They come, they come ! 

Procida enters. 
Procida. The foe is at your gates; 
But hearts and hands prepared shall meet his onset: 
Why are ye loitering here 7 

Citizens. My lord, we came 

Procida. Think ye I know not wherefore? — 
'twas to see 
A fellow-being die ! — Ay, 'tis a sight 
Man loves to look on, and the tenderest hearts 
Recoil, and yet withdraw not from the scene. 
For this ye came. — What ! is our nature fierce. 
Or is there that in mortal agony, 
From which the soul, e.xulting in its strength. 
Doth learn immortal lessons ? — Hence, and arm ! 
Ere the night-dews descend, ye will have seen 
Enough of death ; for this must be a day 
Of battle ! — 'Tis the hour which troubled souls 
Delight in, for its rushing storms are wings 
Which bear them up! — Arm, arm ! 'tis for your 

homes. 
And all tliat lends them loveliness^Away ! 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. — Prison of Raimond. 
Raimond, Anselmo. 

Raimond. And Constance then is safe! — Heaven 
bless thee, father! 
Good angels bear such comfort. 

Anselmo. I have found 

A safe asylum for thine honour'd love. 
Where she may dwell until seretier days. 
With Saint Rosalia's gentlest daughters; those 
Whose hallow'd office is to tend the bed 
Of pain and death, and soothe the parting soul 
With their soft hymns: and therefore are they 

call'd 
" Sisters of Mercy." 

Raimond. Oh ! that name, my Constance, 

Befits thee well ! E'en in our happiest days. 
There was a depth of tender pensiveness. 
Far in thine eyes' dark azure, speaking ever 
Of pity and mild grief. — Is she at peace ? 

Anselmo. Alas ! what should I say ? 

Raimond. Why did I ask ? 

Knowing the deep and full devotedness 
Of her young heart's affections? — Oh! the thought 
Of my untimely fate will haunt her dreams. 
Which should have been so tranquil !— And her 

soul. 
Whose strength was but the lofty gift of love. 
Even unto death will sicken. 

Anselmo. All that faith 

Can yield of comfort, shall assuage her woes ; 
And still, whate'er betide, the light of Heaven 
Rests on her gentle heart. But thou, my son I 
Is thy young spirit master'd and prepared 
For nature's fearful and mysterious change ? 

Raimond. Ay, father ! of my brief remaining 
task 
The least part is to die !— And yet the cup 
Of life still mantled brightly to my lips, 
Crown'd with that sparkling bubble, whose proud 

name 
Is— glory ! — Oh ! my soul, from boyhood's morn. 
Hath nursed such mighty dreams !— It was my hope 
To leave a name, whose echo, from the abyss 
Of time should rise, and float upon the winds, I 

21 



Into the far hereafter; there to be 
A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb. 
Murmuring— Awake !— Arise !— But this is past ! 
Ercwhile, and it had seem'd enough of shame. 
To sleep /o?-^ottcK in the dust— but now 
—Oh God !— the undying record of my grave 
Will be— Here sleeps a traitor !— One, whose crime 
Was— to deem brave men might find nobler wea- 
pons 
Than the cold murderer's dagger ! 

Anselmo. Oh, my son, 

Subdue these troubled thoughts! Thou wouldst 

not change 
Thy lot for theirs, o'er whose dark dreams will 

hang 
The avenging shadows, which the blood-stain'd 

soul 
Doth conjure from the dead ! 

Raimond. Thou 'rt right. I would not. 

Yet 'tis a weary task to school the heart. 
Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery spirit 
Into that still and passive fortitude, 
Which is but learu'd from suifering. — Would the 

hour 
To hush these passionate throbbings were at hand! 
Anselmo. It will not be to-day. Hast thou not 

heard — 
— But no — the rush, the trampling, and the stir 
Of this great city, arming in her haste. 
Pierce not these dungeon -depths. — The foe hath 

reach'd 
Our gates, and all Palermo's youth, and all 
Her warrior-men, are marshall'd, and gone forth 
In that high hope which makes realities. 
To the red field. Thy father leads them on. 
Raimond (starting up.) They are gone forth! my 

father leads them on ! 
All, all Palermo's youth ! — No ! one is left. 
Shut out from glory's race ! — They are gone forth ! 
— Ay! now the soul of battle is abroad. 
It burns upon the air ! — The joyous winds 
Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foam 
Of battle's roaring billows !— On my sight 
The vision bursts — it maddens ! 'tis the flash, 
The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloud 
Of rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze 
Of helmets in the sun !— The very steed 
With his majestic rider glorying shares 
The hour's stern joy, and waves his floating mane 
As a triumphant banner! — Such things are 
Even now— and I am here ! 

Anselmo. Alas, be calm ! 

To the same grave ye press,— thou that dost pine 
Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule 
The fortunes of the fight. 

Raimond. Ay ! Tho7i canst feel 

The calm thou wouldst impart, for unto thee 
All men alike, the warrior and the slave. 
Seem as thou say'st, but pilgrims, pressing on 
To the same bourne. — Yet call it not the same; 
Their graves vi-ho fall in this day's fight, will be 
As altars to their country, visited 
By fathers with their children, bearing wreaths. 
And chanting hymns in honour of the dead : 
Will mine be such? 

ViTTORiA rushes in wildly, as if pursued. 

Vitloria. Anselmo! art thou found ? 

Haste, haste, or all is lost ! Perchance thy voice 
Whereby they deem Heaven speaks, thy lifted 

cross, 
And prophet mien, may stay the fugitives. 
Or shame them back to die. 

Anselmo. The fugitives ! 

What words are these ? — the sons of Sicily 
Fly not before the foe ? 

Vittoria. That I should say 

It is too true! 

Anselmo. And thou — thou bleedest, lady I 

Vittoria. Peace! heed not me, when Sicily is 
lost! 
I stood upon the walls, and watch'd our bands. 
As, with their ancient, royal banner spread. 
Onward they niarch'd. The combat was begun. 
The fiery impulse given, and valiant nien 
Had seal'd their freedom with their blood — when, io! 



162 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



That false Alberti led his recreant vassals 
To join th' invader's host. 

Raimond. His country's curse 

Rest on the slave for ever ! 

Vittoria. Then distrust 

E'en of their noble leaders, and dismay, 
That swift contagion, on Palermo's bands 
Came, like a deadly blight. They fled !— Oh shame ! 
E'en now they fly !— Ay, through the city gates 
They rush, as if all Etna's burning streams 
Pursued their winged steps! 

Raimond. Thou hast not named 

Their chief— Di Procida— fl^e doth not fly? 

Vittoria. No ! like a kingly lion in the toils. 
Daring the hunters yet, he proudly strives; 
But all in vain ! The few that breast the storm, 
With Guido and Montalba, by his side, 
Fight but for graves upon the battle-field. 

Raimond. And I am here! Shall there be power. 
Oh God ! 
In the roused energies of fierce despair. 
To burst my heart— and not to rend my chains ? 
Oh, for one moment of the thunderbolt 
To set the strong man free ! 

Vittoria {after gazing upon him earnestly.) Why, 
'twere a deed 
Worthy the fame and blessing of all time, 
To loose thy bonds, thou son of Procida ! 
Thou art no traitor! — from thy kindled brow 
Looks out thy lofty soul I — rise ! go forth! 
And rouse the noble heart of Sicily 
Unto high deeds again. Anselmo, haste ; 
Unbind him ! Let my spirit still prevail. 
Ere I depart — for the strong hand of death 
Is on me now. {She sinks back against a pillar.) 

Anselmo. Oh Heaven ! the life-blood streams 
Fast from thy heart— thy troubled eyes grow dim. 
Who hath done this ? 

Vittoria. Before the gates I stood, 

And in the name of him, the loved and lost. 
With whom I soon shall be, all vainly strove 
To stay the shameful flight. Then from the foe. 
Fraught with my summons, to his viewless home, 
Came the fleet shaft which pierced me. 

Anselmo. Yet, oh yet. 

It may not be too late. Help, help ! 

Vittoria. Away ! 

Bright is the hour which brings me liberty ! 

Attendants enter. 

Haste, be those fetters riven ! — Unbar the gates. 
And set the captive free ! 

( The Attendants seem to hesitate.) Know ye not her 
Who should have worn your country's diadem ? 
Attendants. Oh, lady, we obey. 

{They take off Raimond's chains. He springs up, 
exultingly.) 

Raimond. Is this no dream ? 

— Mount, eagle! thou art free!— Shall I then die, 
Not 'midst the mockery of insulting crowds. 
But on the field of banners, where the brave 
Are striving for an immortality? 
—It is e'en so!— Now for bright arms of proof, 
A helm, a keen-edged falchion, and e'en yet 
My father may be saved ! 

Vittoria. Away, be strong ! 

And let thy battle-word, to rule the storm, 
Be—Coyiradin. {He rushes out.) 

Oh ! for one hour of life. 
To hear that name blent with th' exulting shout 
Of victory !— It will not be !— A mightier power 
Doth summon me away. 

Anselmo. To purer worlds 

Raise thy last thoughts in hope. 

Vittoria. Yes ! he is there. 

All glorious in his beauty !— Conradin ! 
Death parted us— and death shall reunite! 
— He will not stay— it is all darkness now ! 
Night gathers o'er my spirit. {She dies.) 

Anselmo. She is gone ! 

It is an awful hour which stills the heart 
That beat so proudly once.— Have mercy, Heaven ! 
{He kneels beside her.) 



Scene IV. — Before the Gates of Palermo. 
Sicilians flying tumultuously towards the Oatcs. 
Voices {without.) Montjoy ! Montjoy ! St. Dennis 
for Anjou ! 
Provencals, on I 
Sicilians. Fly, fly, or all is lost ! 

(Raimond appears in the gateway, armed, and carry- 
ing a banner.) 
Raimond. Back, back, I say ! ye men of Sicily ! 
All is not lost ! Oh shame !— A few brave hearts 
In such a cause, ere now, have set their breasts 
Against the rush of thousands, and sustain'd, 
And made the shock recoil. — Ay, man, free man, 
Still to be call'd so, hath achieved such deeds 
As heaven and earth have marvell'd at ; and souls. 
Whose spark yet slumbers with the days to come. 
Shall burn to hear; transmitting brightly thus 
Freedom from race to race ! — Back ! or prepare 
Amidst your hearths, your bowers, your very 

shrines. 
To bleed and die in vain ! — Turn, follow me ! 
Conradin, Conradin ! — for Sicily 
His spirit fights! — Remember Conradin! 

{They begin to rally round him.) 
Ay, this is well ! — Now follow me, and charge ! 

The Provencals rush in, but are repulsed by the 
Sicilians. 

[^Exeunt. 

Scene V. — Part of the Field of Battle. 

Montalba enters wounded, and supported by Rai- 
mond, whose face is concealed by his helmet. 

Raimond. Here rest thee, warrior. 

Montalba. Rest ! ay, death is rest, 

And such will soon be mine — But thanks to thee, 
I shall not die a captive. Brave Sicilian ! 
These lips are all unused to soothing words, 
Or I should bless the valour which hath won, 
For my last hour, the proud free solitude 
Wherewith my soul would gird itself. — Thy name? 

Raimond. 'T will be no music to thine ear, Mon- 
talba. 
Gaze— read it thus ! {He lifts the visor of his helmet.) 

Montalba. Raimond di Procida I 

Raimond. Thou hast pursued me with a bitter 
hate : 
But fare thee well ! Heaven's peace be with thy 

soul! 
I must away — One glorious effort more. 
And this proud field is won ! [Exit Raimond. 

Montalba. Am I thus humbled ? 

How my heart sinks within me ! But 'tis death 
(And he can tame the mightiest) hath subdued 
My towering nature thus ! — Yet is he welcome! 
That youth — 't was in his pride he rescued me ! 
I was his deadliest foe, and thus he proved 
His fearless scorn. Ha ! ha ! but he shall fail 
To melt me into womanish feebleness. 
There I still batfle him — the grave shall seal 
My lips for ever — mortal shall not hear 
Montalba say — "forgive!" [He dies. 



Scene VI. — Anotlier part of the Field. 
Procida, Gdido, and other Sicilians. 

Procida. The day is ours; but he, the brave 
unknown. 
Who turn'd the tide of battle ; he whose path 
Was victory — who hath seen him ? 

Ai.BERTi is brought in, wounded and fettered. 

Alberti. Procida ! 

Procida. Be silent, traitor ! — Bear him from my 
sight 
Unto your deepest dungeons. 

Alberti. In the grave 
A nearer home awaits me. — Yet one word 
Ere my voice fail — thy son 

Procida. Speak, speak ! 

Alberti. Thy son 

Knows not a thought of guilt. That trait'rous plot 
Was mine alone. {He is led away.) 



VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



163 



Procida. Attest it, earth and Heaven ! 

My son is guiltless !— Hear it, Sicily ! 
The blood of Procida is noble still ! — 
My son ! — He lives, he lives!— His voice shall speak 
Forgiveness to his sire !— His name shall cast 
Its brightness o'er my soul ! 

Ouido. Oh, day of joy ! 

The brother of my heart is worthy still 
The lofty name he bears. 

Anselmo enters. 

Procida. Anselmo, welcome ! 

In a glad hour we meet ; for know, my son 
Is guiltless. 

Anselmo. And victorious ! by his arm 
All hath been rescued. 

Procida. How ! — the unknown 

Anselmo Was he ! 

Thy noble Raimond ! By Vittoria's hand 
Freed from his bondage, in that awful hour 
When all was flight and terror. 

Proeida. Now my cup 

Of joy too brightly mantles!— Let me press 
My warrior to a father's heart— and die ; 
For life hath naught beyond— Why comes he not ? 
Anselmo, lead me to my valiant boy ! 

Anselmo. Temper this proud delight. 

Procida. What means that look ? 

He hath not fallen ? 

Anselmo. He lives. 

Procida. Away, away ! 

Bid the wide city with triumphal pomp 
Prepare to greet her victor. Let this hour 
Atone for all his wrongs I — [Exeunt. 



Scene VII. — Garden of a Convent. 
Raimond is led in wounded, leaning on Attendants. 

Raimond. Bear me to no dull couch, but lot me die 
In the bright face of nature !— Lift my helm, 
That I may look on Heaven. 

First Attendant {to second Attendant.) Lay him 
to rest 
On this green sunny bank, and I will call 
Some holy sister to his aid : but thou 
Return unto the field, for high-born men 
There need the peasant's aid. 

[Exit second Attendant. 

{To Raimond.) Here gentle hands 

Shall tend thee, warrior; for in these retreats 
They dwell, whose vows devote them to the care 
Of all that suffer. May'st thou live to bless them ! 
\Kxit first Attendant. 

Raimond. Thus have T wish'd to die ! — 'T was a 
proud strife ! 
My father bless'd th' unknown who rescued him, 
(Bless'd him, alas ! because unknown !) and Guido, 
Beside me bravely struggling, call'd aloud, 
" Noble Sicilian, on !" Oh ! had they deem'd 
'T was I who led that rescue, they had spurn'd 
Mine aid, though 'twas deliverance; and their looks 
Had fallen, like blights, upon me. — There is one. 
Whose eye ne'er turn'd on mine, but its blueligjit 
Grew softer, trembling through the dewy mist 
Raised by deep tenderness! — Oh, might the soul 
Set in that eye, shine on me ere I perish ! 
— Is't not her voice? 

Constance enters, speakino- to a JVam, who turns 
into another path. 

Constance. Oh ! happy they, kiml sister. 

Whom thus ye tend; for it is theirs to fall 
With brave men sideby side, when the roused heart 
Beats proudly to the last ! — There are high souls 
Whose hope was such a death, and 'tis denied ! 

(She approaches Raimond.) 
Young warrior, is there aught — thou here, my 

Raimond ! 
Tliou here — and thus ! — Oh ! is this joy or woe ? 

Raimond. Joy, be it joy, my own, my blessed love. 
E'en on the grave's dim verge ! — yes ! it ?s joy ! 
Mv Constance! victors have been crown'd,ere now. 
With the green shining laurel, when their brows 
Wore death's own impress — and it may be thus 
E'en yet, with me !— They freed me, when the foe 



Had half prevaii'd, and Ih.Tve proudly earn'd, 
With my heart's dearest blood, the meed to die 
Within thine arms. 

Constance. Oh! speak not thus— to die! 

These wounds may yet be closed. 

{She attempts to hind his wounds.) 
Look on me, love ! 
Why, there is more than life in thy glad mien. 
'Tis full of hope ! and from thy kindled eye 
Breaks e'en unwonted light, whose ardent ray 
Seems born to be immortal ! 

Raimond. 'Tis e'en so ! 

The parting soul doth gather all her fires 
Around her ; all her glorious hopes, and dreams. 
And burning aspirations, to illume 
The shadowy dimness of the untrodden path 
Which lies before her; and, encircled thus. 
Awhile she sits in dying eyes, and thence 
Sends forth her bright farewell. Thy gentle cares 
Are vain, and yet I bless them. 

Constance. Say not vain ; 

The dying look not thus. We shall not part ! 

Raimond. I have seen death ere now, and known 
him wear 
Full many a changeful aspect. 

Constance. Oh ! but none 

Radiant as thine, my warrior! — Thou wilt live ! 
Look round thee ! — all is sunshine— is not this 
A smiling world? 

Raimond. Ay, gentlest love, a world 

Of joyous beauty and magnificence. 
Almost too fair to leave! — Yet must we tame 
Our ardent hearts to this !— Oh, weep thou not ! 
There is no home for liberty, or love. 
Beneath these festal skies! — Be not deceived; 
My way lies far beyond ! — I shall be soon 
That viewless thing, which, with its mortal weeds 
Casting off meaner passions, yet, we trust. 
Forgets not how to love ! 

Constance. And must this be ? 

Heaven, thou art merciful! — Oh! bid our souls 
Depart together! 

Raimond Constance ! there is strength 

Within thy gentle heart, which hath been proved 
Nobly, for me : — Arouse it once again ! 
Thy grief unmans me — and I fain would meet 
Tliat which approaches, as a brave man yields 
With proud submission to a mightier foe. 
— It is upon me now ! 

Constance. I will be calm. 

Let thy head rest upon my bosom, Raimond, 
And I will so suppress its quick deep sobs. 
They shall but rock thee to thy rest. There is 
A world, (ay, let us seek it !) where no blight 
Falls on the beautiful rose of youth, and there 
I shall be with thee soon ! 

Procida and Anselmo enter. Procida, on seeing- 
Raimond, starts back. 

Anselmo. Lift up thy head. 

Brave youth, exultingly ! for lo! thine hour 
Of glory conies ! — Oh ! doth it come too late ? 
E'en now the false Alberti hath confess'd 
That guilty plot, for which thy life was doom'd 
To be th' atonement. 

Raimond. 'Tis enough! Rejoice, 

Rejoice, my Constance! for I leave a name 
O'er which thou may'st weep proudly ! 

{He sinks back.) 
To thy breast 
Fold me yet closer, for an icy dart 
Hath touch'd my veins. 

Constance. And must thou leave me, Raimond ? 
Alas! thine eye grows dim — its wandering glance 
Is full of dreams. 

Raimond. Haste, haste, and tell my father 

I was no traitor ! 

Proeida {rushing foneard.) To that father's heart 
Return, forgiving all thy wrongs, return ! 
Speak to ine, Raimond I — Thou wert ever kind. 
And brave, and gentle ! Say that all the past 
Shall be forgiven ! That word from none but thee 
My lips e'er ask'd. — Speak to me once, my boy. 
My pride, my hope ! — And is it with thee thus? 
Look on me yet !— Oh! must this woe be borne? 



164 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Raimond. Off with this weight of chains ! it is 
not meet 
For a ciovvn'd conqueror !— Hark ! the trumpet's 
voice ! 

{M sound of triumphant music is heard 
gradually approaching.) 

Is't not a thrilling call 7— What drowsy spell 
Benumbs me thus?— Hence! I am free again ! 
Now swell your festal strains, the field is won ! 
Sing me to glorious dreams. {He dies.) 

.anselmo. The strife is past. 

There fled a noble spirit ! 

Constance. Hush ! he sleeps- 

Disturb him not! 

Anselmo. Alas! this is no sleep 

From which the eye doth radiantly unclose : 
Bow down thy soul, for earthly hope is o'er! 

{The music continues approaching. GniDO 
enters, with Citizens and Soldiers.) 

Ouido. The shrines are deck'd, the festive torches 
blaze — 
Where is our brave deliverer? — We are come 
To crown Palermo's victor ! 

Anselmo. Ye come too late. 

The voice of human praise doth send no echo 
Into the world of spirits. {The music ceases.) 

Procida {after a pause.) Is this dust 



I look on— Raimond ? — 't is but sleep— a smile 
On his pale cheek sits proudly. Kainiond, wake ! 
Oh, God ! and this was his triumphant day ! 
My son, my injured son! 

Constance {starting.) Art thou his father ? 
I know thee now. — Hence ! with thy dark stern eye. 
And thy cold heart ! Thou canst not wake him 

now ! 
Away ! he will not answer but to me, 
For none like me hath loved him ! He is mine ! 
Ye shall not rend him from me. 

Procida. Oh ! he knew 

Thy love, poor maid ! — Shrink from me now no 

more ! 
He knew thy heart — but who shall tell him now 
The depth, th' intenseness, and the agony. 
Of my suppress'd affection ? — I have learn'd 
All his high worth in time to deck his grave ! 
Is there not power in the strong spirit's woe 
To force an answer from the viewless world 
Of the departed ? — Raimond ! — Speak ! forgive ! 
Raimond ! my victor, my deliverer, hear ! 
Why, what a world is this ! — Truth ever bursts 
On the dark soul too late : and glory crowns 
Th' unconscious dead! An hour comes to break 
The mightiest hearts ! — My son ! my son ! is this 
A day of triumph! — Ay, for thee alone ! 

{He throws himself upon the body of Raimond.) 
ICurtaitt falls. 



OR, 

THE MEETING ON THE FIELD OF GRUTLI. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



It was in the year 1308, that the Swiss rose 
against the tyranny of the Bailiffs appointed over 
them by Albert of Austria. The field called the 
Grutli, at the foot of the Seelisberg, and near the 
boundaries of Uri and Unterwalden, was fixed 
upon by three spirited yeomen, Walter Furst, (the 
father-in-law of William Tell,) Werner Stauf- 
facher, and Erni (or Arnold) Melchthal, as their 
place of meeting to deliberate on the accomplish- 
ment of their projects. 

" Hither came Furst and Melchthal, along secret 
paths over the heights, and Stauffacher in his boat 
across the Lake of the Four Cantons. On the night 
preceding the 11th of November, 1307, they met 
here, each with ten associates, men of approved 
worth ; and while at this solemn hour they were 
wrapt in the contemplation that on their success 
depended the fate of their whole posterity, VVerner, 
Walter, and Arnold held up their hands to heaven, 
and in the name of the Almighty, who has created 
man to an inalienable degree of freedom, swore 
jointly and strenuously to defend that freedom. 
The thirty associates heard the oath with awe ; 
and with uplifted hands attested the same God, 
and all his saints, that they were firmly bent on 
offering up their lives for the defence of their in- 



jured liberty. They then calmly agreed on their 
future proceedings, and for the present, each re- 
turned to his hamlet." — Plantd's History of the 
Helvetic Confederacy . 

On the first day of the year 1308, they succeeded 
in throwing off the Austrian yoke, and " it is well 
attested," says the same author, " that not one 
di'opof blood was shed on this memorable occasion, 
nor had one proprietor to lament the loss of a 
c aim, a privilege, or an inch of land. The Swiss 
met on the succeeding sabbath, and once more 
cionfirmed by oath their ancient, and (as they 
fpndly named it) their perpetual league." 



LEAGUE OF THE ALPS. 



I. 

'TwAs night upon the Alps.— The Sen n's(l) wild 

horn, 
Like a vs'ind's voice, had pour'd its last long tone, 
Whose pealing echoes through the larch-woods 

borne. 
To the low cabins of the glens made known 
That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had 

gone. 
By cliff and pine-bridge, to their place of rest; 
The chamois slumber'd, for the chase was done ; 
His cavern-bed of moss the hunter press'd. 
And the rock-eagle couch'd high on his cloudy nest. 



LEAGUE OF THE ALPS. 



165 



11. 

Did the land sleep?— the woodman's axe had 

ceased 
Its ringing notes upon the beech and plane ; 
The grapes were gather'd in ; the vintage feast 
Was closed upon the hills, the reaper's strain 
Hush'd by the streams ; the year was in its wane, 
The niglit in its mid-watch ; it was a time 
E'en m'ark'd and hallow'd unto slumber's reign. 
But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime. 
And o'er his white Alps moved the spirit of the 
clime. 

III. 

For there, where snows, in crowning glory 

spread, 
High and unmark'd by mortal footstep lay ; 
And there, where torrents, 'mid the ice-caves fed, 
Burst in their joy of light and sound away ; 
And there, where freedom, as in scornful play. 
Had hung man's dwellings 'midst the realms of 

air. 
O'er cliffs the very birthplace of the day — 
Oh! who would dream tliat tyranny could dare 
To lay her withering hand on God's bright works 

e'en there ? 

IV. 

Yet thus it was—amidst the fleet streams gush- 
ing 
To bring down rainbows o'er their sparry cell. 
And the glad heights, through mist and tempest 

rushing 
Up where the sun's red fire-glance earliest fell. 
And the fresh pastures where the herd's sweet 

bell 
Recall'd such life as Eastern patriarchs led : 
There peasant-men their free thoughts might not 

tell 
Save in the hour of shadows and of dread. 
And hollow sounds that wake to Guilt's dull 
stealthy tread. 



But in a land of happy shepherd homes. 
On its green hills in quiet joy reclining 
With their bright hearth-fires 'midst the twilight 

glooms. 
From bowery lattice through the fir-woods shin- 
ing : 
A land of legends and wild songs, entwining < 
Their memorv with all memories loved and 

blest— " 
In such a land there dwells a power, combining 
The strength of many a calm, but fearless breast; 
And woe to him who breaks the Sabbath of its 
rest ! 

VI. 

A sound went up— the wave's dark sleep wa^ 
broken — | 

On Uri's lake was heard a midnight oar — 
Of man's brief course a troubled moment's token 
Th' eternal waters to their barriers bore ; 
And then their gloom a flashing image wore 
Of torch-fires streaming out o'er crag and wood, 
And the wild falcon's wing was heard to soar 
In startled haste — and by that moonlight flood, 
A band of patriot-men on Grutli's verdure stood. 

VII. 

They stood in arms— the wolf-spear and the bow 
Had waged their war on things of mountain 

race ; 
Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad 

foe? 
— Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chase. 
True hearts in fight, were gather'd on that place 
Of secret council.— Not for fame or spoil 
So met those men in Heaven's majestic face; — 
To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil. 
The hunter of the rocks, the tiller of the soil. 



VIII. 

O'er their low pastoral valleys might the tide 
Of years have flow'd, and still, from sire to son, 
Their names and records on the green earth died. 
As cottage-lamps, expiring one by one. 
In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun 
To hush all sound. — But silent on its height. 
The snow-mass, full of death, while ages run 
Their course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light, 
Till some rash voice or step disturb its brooding 
might. 

IX. 

So were they roused — th' invading step had past 
Their cabin thresholds, and the lowly door. 
Which well had stood against the Fohn wind's (2) 

blast. 
Could bar Oppression from their home no more. 
Why, what had she to do where all things wore 
Wild grandeur's impress ? — In the storm's free 

way. 
How dared she lift her pageant crest before 
Th' enduring and magnificent array 
Of sovereign Alps, that wing'd their eagles with 

the day ? 

X. 

This might not long be borne— the tameless hills 
Have voices from the cave and cataract swelling. 
Fraught with His name, whose awful presence 

fills 
Their deep lone places, and for ever telling 
That He hath made man free ! and they whose 

dwelling 
Was in those ancient fastnesses, gave ear; 
The weight of sutferance from their hearts re- 
pelling. 
They rose — the forester — the mountaineer — 
Oh! vvhat hath earth more strong than the good 
peasant-spear ? 

XI. 

Sacred be Grutli's field— their vi^il keeping 
Through many a blue and starry summer-night. 
There while the sons of happier lands were 

sleeping. 
Had those brave Switzers met ; and in the sight 
Of the just God, who pours forth burning might 
To gird the oppress'd, had given their deep 

thoughts way. 
And braced their spirits for the patriot fight. 
With lovely images of homes that lay 
Bower'd 'midst the rustling pines, or by the torrent 

spray. 

XII. 

Now had endurance reach'd its bounds !— They 

came 
With courage set in each bright earnest eye, 
The day, the signal, and the hour to name. 
When they should gather on their hills to die, 
Or shake the Glaciers with their joyous cry 
For the land's freedom.— 'T was a scene, com- 
bining 
All glory in itself— the solemn sky. 
The stars, the waves their soften'd light en- 
shrining. 
And man's high soul supreme o'er mighty Nature 
shining. 

XIII. 

Calmly they stood, and with collected mien, 
Breathing their souls in voices firm but low. 
As if the spirit of the hour and scene, 
With the woods' whisper and the waves' sweet 

flow. 
Had temper'd in their thoughtful hearts the glow 
Of all indignant feeling. To the breath 
Of Dorian flute, and lyre-note soft and slow. 
E'en thus, of old, the Spartan from its sheath 
Drew his devoted sword, and girt himself for death. 

XIV. 
And three, that seem'd as chieftains of the band, 
Were gather'd in the midst on that lone shore 



166 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



ByUri's lake— a father of the land, (3) 
One on his brow the silent record wore 
Of many days whose shadows had pass'd o'er 
His path among the hills, and quench'd the dreams 
Of youth with sorrow. — Yet from memory's lore 
Still his life's evening drew its loveliest gleams. 
For he had walk'd with God, beside the mountain 
streams. 

XV. 

And his gray hairs, in happier times, might well 
To their last pillow silently have gone, 
As melts a wreath of snow. — But who shall tell 
How life may task the spirit? — He was one. 
Who from its morn a freeman's work had done, 
And reap'd his harvest, and his vintage press'd, 
Fearless of wrong ; and now, at set of sun, 
He bow'd not to his years, for on the breast 
Of a still chainless land he deem'd it much to rest. 

XVI. 

But for such holy rest strong hands must toil, 
Strong hearts endure ! — By that pale elder's side, 
Stood one that seem'd a monarch of the soil, 
Serene and stately in his manhood's pride, 
Werner, (4) the brave and true !— If men have 

died. 
Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep. 
He was a mate for such. — The voice, that cried 
Within his breast, " Arise !" came still and deep 
From his far home, that smiled e'en then in moon- 
light sleep. 

XVII. 

It was a home to die for ! — As it rose 
Through its vine-foliage, sending forth a sound 
Of mirthful childhood, o'er the green repose 
And laughing sunshine of the pastures round ; 
And he whose life to that sweet spot was bound. 
Raised unto Heaven a glad yet thoughtful eye, 
And set his free step firmer on the ground, 
When o'er his soul its melodies went by 
As through some Alpine pass, a breeze of Italy. 

XVIII. 

But who was he, that on his hunting-spear 
Lean'd with a prouder and more fiery bearing? 
— His was a brow for tyrant hearts to fear. 
Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing 
That which they may not tame — a soul declaring 
War against earth's oppressors. — 'Midst that 

throng. 
Of other mould he seem'd, and loftier daring, 
One whose blood swept high impulses along. 
One that should pass, and leave a name for war- 
like song, 

XIX. 

A memory on the mountains! — one to stand. 
When the hills echoed with the deepening swell 
Of hostile trumpets, foremost for the land, 
And in some rock defile, or savage dell. 
Array her peasant-children to repel 
Th' invader, sending arrows for his chains! 
Ay, one to fold around him, as he fell. 
Her banner with a smile — for through his veins 
The joy of danger flow'd, as torrents to the plains. 

XX. 

There was at times a wildness in the light 
Of his quick-flashing eye; a something, born 
Of the free Alps, and beautifully bright. 
And proud, and tameless, laughing Fearto scorn! 
It well might be !— Young Erni's(5) step had 

worn 
The mantling snows on their most regal steeps. 
And track'd the lynx above the clouds of morn, 
And follow'd where the flying chamois leaps 
Across the dark-blue rifts, th' unfathom'd glacier 
deeps. 

XXI. 

He was a creature of the Alpine sky, 
A being whose bright spirit had been fed 



'Midst the crown'd heights of joy and liberty, 
And thoughts of power. — He knew each path 

which led 
To the rock's treasure-caves, whose crystals shed 
Soft light o'er secret fountains. — At the tone 
Of his loud horn, the Lammer-Geyer (6) had 

spread 
A startled wing ; for oft that peal had blown 
Where the free cataract's voice was wont to sound 

alone. 

XXII. 

His step had track'd the waste, his soul had 

stirr'd 
The ancient solitudes— his voice had told 
Of wrongs to call down Heaven. (7) That tale 

was heard 
In Hasli's dales, and where the shepherd's fold 
Their flocks in dark ravine and craggy hold 
On the bleak Oberland ; and where the light 
Of Day's last footstep bathes in burning gold 
Great Righi's cliflJs; and where Mount Pilate's 

height 
Castso'er his glassy lake the darkness of his might. 

xxin. 

Nor was it heard in vain.— There all things press 
High thoughts on man. The fearless hunter 

pass'd. 
And, from the bosom of the wilderness, 
There leapt a spirit and a power to cast 
The weight of bondage down— and bright and 

fast. 
As the clear waters, joyously and free, 
Burst from the desert-rock, it rush'd at last. 
Through the far valleys ; till the patriot three 
Thus with their brethren stood, beside the Forest 

Sea. (8) 

XXIV. 
They link'd their hands,— they pledged their 

stainless faith. 
In the dread presence of attesting Heaven — 
They bound their hearts to suffering and to 

death, 
With the severe and solemn transport given 
To bless such vows. — How man had striven, 
How man might strive, and vainly strive, they 

knew. 
And call'd upon theirGod, whose arm had riven 
The crest of many a tyrant, since He blew 
The foaming sea-wave on, and Egypt's might 

o'erthrew. 

XXV. 

I They knelt, and rose in strength. — The valleys 
lay 
Still in their dimness, but the peaks which darted 
Into the bright mid-air, had caught from day 
' A flush of fire, when those true Switzers parted, 
Each to his glen or forest, steadfast-hearted. 
And full of hope. Not many suns had worn 
Their setting glory, ere from slumber started 
Ten thousand voices, of the mountains born — 
So far was heard the blast of Freedom's echoing 
horn ! 

XXVI. 

The ice-vaults trembled, when that peal came 

rending 
The frozen stillness which around them hung; 
From cliff to cliff the avalanche descending. 
Gave answer, till the sky's blue hollows rung: 
And the flame-signals through the midnight 

sprung, 

From the Surennen rocks like banners streaming 

To the far Seel isbevg ; whence light was flung 

On Grutli's field, till all the red lalie gleaming 

Shone out, a meteor-heaven in its wild splendour 

seeming. 

xxvii. 

And the winds toss'd each summit's blazingcrest, 
As a host's plumage ; and the giant pines, 
Fell'd where they waved o'er crag and eagle's 
nest, 



LEAGUE OF THE ALPS. 



167 



Heap'd up the flames. The clouds grew fiery 

signs. 
As o'er a city's burning towers and shrines 
Reddening the distance. Wine-cups, crown'd 

and bright. 
In Werner's dwelling flow'd; through leafless 

vines 
From Walter's hearth stream'd forth the festive 

light, 
And Erni's blind old sire gave thanks to Heaven 

that night. 

XXVIII. 

Then on the silence of the snows there lay 
A Sabbath's quiet sunshine,— and its bell 
Fill'd the hush'd air awhile, with lonely sway ; 
For the stream's voice was chain'd by Winter's 

spell. 
The deep wood-sounds had ceased.— But rock and 

dell 
Rung forth, ere long, when strains of jubilee 
Peal'd from the mountain-churches, with a swell 
Of praise to Him who stills the raging sea, — 
For now the strife was closed, the glorious Alps 

were free ! 



NOTES. 

Note 1. 
The Sennas wild horn. 



SeQD, the name given to a herdsman among the Swiss Alps. 



Note 2. 
-Against the Fohnwind^s blast. 



Fohnwind, the South-east wind, which frequently lays waste the 
country before it. 

Note 3. 
A father of the Jand, 
Walter Furst, the father-in-law of TeU. 

Note 4. 
Werner, the brave and true ! ^c, 
Werner Stauffacher, who had been urged by his wife to rouse and 
unite his countrymen for the deliverance of Switzerland. 

Note 5. 
Yawns Emi's step had worn, ^c. 



Erni, Arnold Melchthal. 

Note 6. 

The Lammer-Geyer had spread, tfe. 

The liimmer-Geyer, the largest kind of Alpine eagle. 

Note 7. 

Of wrongs to call down Heaem, ^c. 
The eyes of his aged father had been put out, by the orders of the 
Austrian Governor. 

Note 8. 

Beside the Forest-Sea. 



Forest-Sea. The Lake of the Four Cantons is frequeHtlyso called. 



Metwlif^ Of WBf}mnn: 



Mightier far 
Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway 
Of magic potent over sun and star, 
Is love, though oft to agony distrest, 
And though his favourite seat be feeble 



breast 
Wordsworth. 



Das ist das Loos des Schonen auf der Erde ! 

SchiUer, 



ARABELLA STUART. 



" The Lady Arabella," as she has been frequently en- 
titled, was descended from Margaret, eldest daughter of 
Henry VII., and consequently allied, by birth, to Eliza- 
beth, as vi-ell as James I. This affinity to the throne 
proved the misfortune of her life, as the jealousies which 
it constantly exxited in her royal relatives, who were 
anxious to prevent her marrying, shut her out from the 
enjoyment of that domestic happiness which her heart 
appears to have so fervently desired. By a secret, but 
early discovered union, with William Seymour, son of 
Lord Beauchamp, she alarmed the cabinet of James, 
and the wedded lovers were immediately placed in sepa- 
rate confinement. From this they found means to con- 
cert a romantic plan of escape ; and having won over a 
female attendant, by whose assistance she was disguised 
in male attire, Arabella, though faint from recent sick- 
ness and suffering, stole out in the night, and at last 
reached an appointed spot, where a boat and servants 
were in waiting. She embarked ; and, at break of day, 
a French vessel, engaged to receive her, was discovered 
and gained. As Seymour, however, had not yet arrived, 
she was desirous that the vessel should lie at anchor for 
him; but this wish was overruled by her companions, 
who, contrary to her entreaties, hoisted sail, "which," 
says D'Israeh "occasioned so fatal a termination to 



this romantic adventure. Seymour, indeed, had escapee 
from the Tower ; — he reached the wharf, and found his 
confidential man waiting with a boat, and arrived at Lee. 
The time passed ; the waves were rising ; Arabella was 
not there; but in the distance he descried a vessel. 
Hiring a fisherman to take him on board, he discovered, 
to his grief, on hailing it, that it was not the French ship 
charged with his Arabella ; in despair and confusion he 
found another ship from Newcastle, which, for a larg* 
sum, altered its course, and landed him in Flanders."— 
Arabella, meantime, while imploring her attendants t( 
linger, and earnestly looking out for the expected boa 
of her husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by ;; 
vessel in the King's service, and brought back to a cap- 
tivity, under the suffering of which her mind and con- 
stitution gradually sunk — " What passed in that dreatf- 
ful imprisonment, cannot, perhaps, be recovered fe^r 
authentic history, — but enough is kno\vn ; that her miiid 
grew impaired, that she finally lost her reason, and, if 
the duration of her imprisonment was short, that it was 
only terminated by her death. Some effusions, often be- 
gun and never ended, written and erased, incoherent 
and rational, yet remain among her papers."-Z»'/A-raf fi' •? 
Curios-itics of Literature— iLhefoWowmg poem, mea.nl 
as some record of her fate, and the imagined fluctuations 
of her thoughts and feelings, is supposed to commence 
during the time of her first imprisonment, while her 
mind was yet buoyed up by the consciousness of Sey- 
mour's affection, and the cherished hope of event ua! 
deliverance. 



168 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



ARABELLA STUART. 



And is not love in vain, 
Torture enough witliout a living tomb? 
Syrcm. 
Fermossi al fin il cor die balzo tanto. 

Pindemonts, 



I. 

'TwAS but a dream !— I saw the stag leap free, 

Under the boughs wliere early birds were singing, 
I stood, o'ershadow'd by the greenwood tree, 

And heard, it seem'd, a sudden bugle ringing 
Far thro' a royal forest : then the fawn 
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn 
To secret covert ; and the smooth turf shook. 
And lilies quiver'd by the glade's lone brook. 
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career, 
A princely band, with burn, and hound, and spear, 
Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance 
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance 
Into the deep wood's heart ; and all pass'd by. 
Save one— I met the s(nile of one clear eye, 
Flashing out joy to mine.— Yes, thou wert there, 
Seymour! a soft wind blew the clustering hair 
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein 
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train, 
And fling, methought, thy hunting-spear away, 
And, lightly graceful in thy green array. 
Bound to my side ; and we, that met and parted, 

Ever in dread of some dark watchful power, 
Won back to childhood's trust, and, fearless-hearted. 
Blent the glad fullness of our thoughts that hour, 
Ev'n like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath 
Dim woven leaves, and midst the floating breath 
Of hidden forest flowers. 

II. 

'T is past !— I wake, 
A captive, and alone, and far from thee. 
My love and friend ! Yet fostering, for tliy sake, 

A quenchless hope of happiness to be ; 
(4nd feeling still my woman's spirit strong, 
/ n the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong, 
heavenward glance. I know, I know our love 
lall yet call gentle angels from above, 
y its undying fervour; and prevail, 
inding a breath, as of the spring's first gale, 
hro' hearts now cold ; and, raising its bright face, 
''ith a free gush of sunny tears erase 
I the characters of anguish ; in this trust, 
/bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust, 
tivAt I may bring thee back no faded form, 
No bosom chill'd and blighted by the storm. 
But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet, 
Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet. 

III. 

And thou too art in bonds !— yet droop thou not. 
Oh, my beloved ! — there is one hopeless lot. 
But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead 
There sits the grief that mantles up its head. 
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light, 
'iVhen darkness, from the vainly-doting sight, 
Covers its beautiful ! (1) If thou wert gone 

To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant brow, — 
If thy deep- thrilling voice, with that low tone 

Of earnest tenderness, which now, ev'n now. 
Seems floating thro' my soul, were music taken 
For ever from this world,— oh! thus forsaken, 
Could I bear on ?— thou liv'st, thou liv'st, thou 'rt 

mine! 
With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine. 
And by the lamp which quenchless there shall burn. 
Sit, a lone watcher for the day's return. 

IV. 

And lo ! the joy that cometh with the morning, 
Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care ! 

I have not watch'd in vain, serenely scorning 
The wild and busy whispers of despair ! 



Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven.— I wait 

The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee. 

Oh ! for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate 

As a star shoots I— but on the breezy sea 
We shall meet soon.— To think of such an hour! 

Will not my heart, o'erburden'd by its bliss. 
Faint and give way within me, as a flower 

Borne down and perishing by noontide's kiss? 
Yet shall I /ear that lot?— the perfect rest, 
The full deep joy of dying on thy breast. 
After long-suflering won 1 So rich a close 
Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes. 
Sunset !— I tell each moment— from the skies 

The last red splendour floats along my wall, 
Like a king's banner !— Now it melts, it dies ! 

I see one star— I hear— 'twas not the call, 
Th' expected voice ; my quick heart throbb'd too 

soon. 
I must keep vigil till yon rising moon 
Shower down less golden light. Beneath her 

beam 
Thro' my lone lattice pour'd, I sit and dream 
Of summer lands afar, where holy love, 
Under the vine, or in the citron-grove. 
May breathe from terror. 

Now the night grows deep. 
And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep. 
I hear my veins beat.— Hark ! a bell's slow chime. 
My heart strikes with it.— Yet again— 'tis time! 
A step !— a voice ! — or but a rising breeze ? 
Hark !— haste !— I come, to meet thee on the seas. 

VL 

Now never more, oh ! never, in the worth 
Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth 
Trust fondly — never more ! — the hope is crush'd 
That lit my life, the voice within me hush'd 
That spoke sweet oracles ; and I return 
To lay my youth, as in a burial-urn. 
Where sunshine may not find it.— All is lost! 
No tempest met our barks— no billow toss'd ; 
Yet were they sever'd, ev'n as we must be. 
That so have loved, so striven our hearts to free 
From their close-coiling fate ! In vain — in vain ! 
The dark links meet, and clasp themselves again, 
And press out life.— Upon the deck I stood, 
And a white sail came gliding o'er the flood, 
Like some proud bird of ocean ; then mine eye 
Strain'd out, one moment earlier to descry 
The form it ached for, and the bark's career 
Seem'd slow to that fond yearning : It drew near. 
Fraught with our foes !— What boots it to recall 
The strife, the tears? Once more a prison-wall 
Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my sight, 
And joyous glance of waters to the light, 
And thee, my Seymour, thee ! 

I will not sink! 
Thou, thou hast rent the heavy chain that bound 
thee; 
And this shall be my strength— the joy to think 
That thou may'st wander with heaven's breath 
around thee ; 
And all the laughing sky ! This thought shall yet 
Shine o'er my heart, a radiant amulet. 
Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken. 
And unto me, I know, thy true love's token 
Shall one day be deliverance, though the years 
Lie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears. 

VII. 

BIy friend, my friend! where art thou? Day by 

day. 

Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away. 

My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the while. 

Comes and rains beauty on the kindling boughs 

Round hall and hamlet; Summer, with her smile. 

Fills the green forest ; — young hearts breathe 

their vows ; 
Brothers, long parted, meet ; fair children rise 
Bound the glad board: Hope laughs from loving 

eyes: 
All this is in the world I — These joys lie sown, 
The dew of every path — On one alone 
Their freshness may not fall — the stricken deer, 
Dying of thirst with all the waters near. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



169 



VIII. 

Ye arfi from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers! 

By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent ; 
O'er yon the oak shed down the summer showers, 

And the lark's nest was where your bright cups 
bent, 
ftuivering to breeze and rain-drop, like the sheen 
Of twilight stars. On you Heaven's eye hath been, 
Thro' the leaves, pouring its dark sultry blue 
liito your glowing iiearts ; the bee to you 
Hath murmur'd, and the rill. — My soul grows faint 
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams 

paint 
Your haunts by dell and stream,^the green, the 

free, 
The full of all sweet sound, — the shut from me ! 

IX. 

There went a swift bird singing past my cell — 
O Love and Freedom! ye are lovely things! 
With you the peasant on the hills may dwell. 

And by the streams; but I— the blood of kings, 
A proud, unniingling river, thro' my veins 
Flows in lone brightness, — and its gifts are chains ! 
Kings! — I had silent visions of deep bliss. 
Leaving their thrones far distant, and for this 
I am cast under their triumphal car. 
An insect to be crush'd.— Oh! Heaven is far, — 
Earth pitiless ! 

Dost thou forget me, Seymour? I am proved 

So long, so sternly I Seymour, my beloved ! 

There are such tales of holy marvels done 

By strong affection, of deliverance won 

Thro' its prevailing power! Are these things told 

Till the young weep with rapture, and the old 

Wonder, yet dare not doubt, — and thou, oh ! thou. 

Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay ? — 
Thou canst not ! — thro' the silent night, ev'n now, 

I, that need prayer so much, wake and pray 
Still first for thee.— Oh! gentle, gentle friend ! 
How shall I bear this anguish to the end? 

Aid ! — comes there yet no aid ? — the voice of blood 
Passes Heaven's gate, ev'n ere the crimson flood 
Sinks thro' the greensward ! — is there not a cry 
From the wrung heart, of power, thro' agony, 
To pierce the clouds? Hear, Mercy! hear me! 

None 
That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun. 
Have heavier cause ! — yet hear !— my soul grows 

dark — 
Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark, 
On the mid seas, and with the storm alone. 
And bearing to th' abyss, unseen, unknown. 
Its freight of human hearts ?— th' o'ermastering 

v;ave ! 
Who shall tell how it rush'd — and none to save ? 

Thou hast forsaken me! I feel, I know. 
There would be rescue if this were not so. 
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board. 
Thou 'rt where the red wine free and high is pour'd, 
Thou 'rt where the dancers meet ! — a magic glass 
Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass. 
Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall ; — 
I see one shadow, stateliest there of all, — 
Thine ! — What dost thou amidst the bright and fair. 
Whispering light words, and mocking my despair? 
It is not well of thee ! — my love was more 
Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought explore, 
And there thou smilest, while my heart is dying, 
With all its blighted hopes around it lying; 
Ev'n thou, on whom they hung their last green 

leaf- 
Yet smile, smile on! too bright art thou for grief! 

Death! — what,isdeatha)ock'dand treasured thing, 
Guarded by swords of fire?(2) a hidden spring, 
A fabled fruit, that T should thus endure. 
As if the world within me held no cure ? 
Wherefore not spread free wings — Heaven, Hea- 
ven ! control 
These thoughts— they rush— I look into my souJ 

22 



As down a gulf, and tremble at th' array 

Of fierce forms crowding it! Give strength to pray, 

So shall their dark host pass. 

The storm is stili'd. 

Father in Heaven ! Thou, only thou, canst sound 
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish fiU'd, 

For human line too fearfully profound. 
Therefore, forgive, my Father ! if 1'hy child, 
Rock'd on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild, 
And sinn'd in her despair ! It well may be, 
That Thou wouldst lead my spirit back to Thee, 
By the crush'd hope too long on this world pour'd, 
The stricken love which hath perchance ador'd 
A mortal in Thy place ! Now let me strive 
With Thy strong arm no more ! Forgive, forgive ! 
Take me to peace ! 

And peace at last is nigh. 

A sign is on my brow, a token sent 
Th'o'erwearieddust, from home: no breeze flits by. 

But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blent 
Of many mysteries. 

Hark! the warning tone 
Deepens— its word is Death. Alone, alone, 
And sad in youth, but chasten'd, I depart. 
Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart 
Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless, 
Ev'n in this hour's o'ershadowing fearfulness. 
Thee, its first love !— oh ! tender still, and true ! 
Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw 
Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name. 
Though but a moment. 

Now, with fainting frame. 
With soul just lingering on the flight begun. 
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one, 
I bless thee ! Peace be on thy noble head. 
Years of "- ' ' " " " '?ad ! 

I bid \ 

Its ■ \ 

Th \ 

T< 
P 
I 



Co 
Coi 

Ma 

Bore their sweet songs u ei me urecian seas ; — 
They came, and Eudora stood robed and crown'd. 
The bride of the morn, with her train around. 
Jewels flasird out from her braided hair, 
Like starry dews 'midst the roses there ; 



-' Founded on a circumstance related in the Second Series of the 
Curiosities of Literature, and forming part of a fiicture in the 
" Fainted Biography^^ there described. 



170 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Pearls on her bosom quivering shone^ 
Heaved by lier heart through its golden zone ; 
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale, 
Gleam'd from beneath, her transparent veil ; 
Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue, 
Though clear as a flower which the light looks 

through ; 
And the glance of her dark resplendent eye, 
For the aspect of woman at times too high, 
Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream 
Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam. 

She look'd on the vine at her father's door. 

Like one that is leaving his native shore ; 

She hung o'er the myrtle once call'd her own. 

As it greenly waved by the threshold stone ; 

She turn'd — and her mother's gaze brought back 

Each hue of her childhood's faded track. 

Oh ! hush the song, and let her tears 

Flow to the dream of her early years! 

Holy and pure are the drops that fall 

When the young bride goes from her father's hall ; 

She goes unto love yet untried and new, 

She parts from love which hath still been true ; 

Mute be the song and the choral strain, 

Till her heart's deep well-spring is clear again! 

She wept on her mother's faithful breast, 

Like a babe that sobs itself to rest ; 

She wept — yet laid her hand awhile 

In his that waited her dawning smile. 

Her soul's atfianced, nor cherish'd less 

For the gush of nature's tenderness! 

She lifted her graceful head at last — 

The choking swell of her heart was past; 

And her lovely thoughts from their cells found way 

In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay. (3) 



And like a slight young tree, that throws 
The weight of rain from its drooping boughs. 
Once more she wept. But a changeful thing 
Is the human heart, as a mountain spring. 
That works its way, through the torrent's foam. 
To the bright pool near it, the lily's home ! 
It is well I— the cloud, on her soul that lay, 
Hath melted in glittering drops away. 



Wake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre ! 
She turns to her lover, she leaves her sire. 
Mother ! on earth it must still be so. 
Thou rearest the lovely to see them go ! 

They are moving onward, the bridal throng. 
Ye may track their way by the swells of song ; 
Ye may catch thro' the foliage their white robes' 

gleam. 
Like a swan 'midst the reeds of a shadowy stream. 
Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread 
Is over the deep-vein'd violet's bed ; 
They have light leaves around them, blue skies 

above. 
An arch for the triumph of youth and love ! 

II. 

Still and sweet was the home that stood 
In the flowering depths of a Grecian wood. 
With the soft green light o'er its low roof spread, 
As if from the glow of an emerald shed. 
Pouring through lime-leaves that mingled on 

high. 
Asleep in the silence of noon's clear sky. 
Citrons amidst their dark foliage glow'd. 
Making a gleam round the lone abode ; 
Laurels o'erhung it, whose faintest shiver 
Scatter'd out rays like a glancing river; 
Stars of the jasmine its pillars crown'd. 
Vine-stalks its lattice and walls had bound, 
And brightly before it a fountain's play 
Flung showers through a thicket of glossy bay. 
To a cypress which rose in that flashing rain, 
Like one tall shaft of some fallen fane. 

And thither lanthis had brought his bride. 

And the guests were met by that fountain-side ; 

They lifted the veil from Eudora's face. 

It smiled out softly in pensive grace, 

With lips of love, and a brow serene, 

Meet for the soul of the deep wood-scene. 

Bring wine, bring odours! — the board is spread — 
Bring roses ! a chaplet for every head ! 
The wine-cups foam'd, and the rose was shower'd 
On the young and fair from the world embower'd. 
The sun look'd not on them in that sweet shade, 
The winds amid scented boughs were laid ; 
But there came by fits, through some wavy tree, 
A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea. 

Hush ! be still !— was that no more 
Than the murmur from the shore? 
Silence ! — did thick rain-drops beat 
On the grass like trampling feet ? — 
Fling down the goblet, and draw the sword ! 
The groves are fiU'd with a pirate-horde ! 
Through the dim olives their sabres shine ; — 
Now must the red blood stream for wine ! 

The youths from the banquet to battle sprang. 
The woods with the shriek of the maidens rang; 
Under the golden-fruited boughs 
There were flashing poniards, and darkening 

brows. 
Footsteps, o'er garland and lyre that fled ; 
And the dying soon on a greensward bed. 

Eudora, Eudora! thou dost not fly ! — 

She saw but lanthis before her lie, 

With the blood from his breast in a gushing flow. 

Like a child's large tears in its hour of woe. 

And a gathering film in his lifted eye, 

That sought his young bride out mournfully. — 

She knelt down beside him, her arms she wound, 

Like tendrils, his drooping neck around, 

As if the passion of that fond grasp 

Might chain in life with its ivy-clasp. 

But they tore her thence in her wild despair. 
The sea's fierce rovers — they left him there ; 
They left to the fountain a dark-red vein, 
And on the wet violets a pile of slain. 
And a hush of fear through the summer-grove. — 
So closed the triumph of youth and love ! 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



171 



III. 

Gloomy lay the shore that night, 
When the moon, with sleeping light, 
Bathed each purple Sciote hill, — 
Gloomy lay the shore, and still. 
O'er the wave no gay guitar 
Sent its floating music far ; 
No glad sound of dancing feet 
Woke, the starry hours to greet. 
But a voice of mortal woe, 
In its changes wild or low, 
Through the midnight's blue repose, 
From the sea-beat rocks arose, 
As Eudora's mother stood 

Gazing o'er th' Egean flood. 
With a fi.x'd and straining eye — 
Oh! was the spoilers' vessel nigh? 
Yes ! there, becalm'd in silent sleep. 
Dark and alone on a breathless deep, 
On a sea of molten silver dark. 
Brooding it frown'd, that evil bark ! 
There its broad pennon a shadow cast. 
Moveless and black from the tall still mast. 
And the heavy sound of its flapping sail, 
Idly and vainly woo'd the gale. 
Hush'd was all else— had ocean's breast 
Rock'd e'en Eudora that hour to rest ? 

To rest ?— the waves tremble !— what piercing cry 

Bursts from the heart of the ship on high? 

What light through the heavens, in a sudden spire, 

Shoots from the deck up ? Fire ! 't is fire ! 

There are wild forms hurrying to and fro, 

Seen darkly cleaV on that lurid glow; 

There are shout, and signal-gun, and call. 

And the dashing of water, — but fruitless all ! 

Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame 

The might and wrath of the rushing flame ! 

It hath twined the mast like a glittering snake, 

That coils up a tree from a dusky brake ; 

It hath touch'd the sails, and their canvas rolls 

Away from its breath into shrivell'd scrolls ; 

It hath taken a flag's high place in air. 

And redden'd the stars with its wavy glare. 

And sent out bright arrows, and soar'd in glee. 

To a burning mount 'midst the moonlit sea. 

The swimmers are plunging from stern and prow — 

Eudora, Eudora ! where, where art thou ? 

The slave and his master alike are gone. — 

Mother ! who stands on the deck alone ? 

The child of thy bosom!— and lo! a brand 

Blazing up high in her lifted hand ! 

And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair 

Sway'd by the flames as they rock and flare. 

And her fragile form to its loftiest height 

Dilated, as if by the spirit's might. 

And her eye with an eagle-gladness fraught, — 

Oh ! could this work be of woman wrought ? 

Yes ! 'twas her deed ! — by that haughty smile, 

It was her's ! — She hath kindled her funeral pile ! 

Never might shame on that bright head be. 

Her blood was the Greek's, and hath made her free. 



Proudly she stands, like an Indian bride 

On the pyre with the holy dead beside ; 

But a shriek from her mother hath caught her ear. 

As the flames to her marriage-robe draw near, 

And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain 

To the form they must never enfold again. 

One moment more, and her hands are clasp'd, 
Fallen is the torch they had wildly grasp'd. 
Her sinking knee unto Heaven is bow'd, 
And her last look raised through the smoke's dim 

shroud. 
And her lips as in prayer for her pardon move — 
Now the night gathers o'er youth and love !* 



THE SWITZER'S WIFE. 



Werner Stauffacher, one of the three confederates of 
the field of Grutli, had been alarmed by the envy with 
which the Austrian Bailift', Landenberg, had noticed the 
appearance of wealth and comfort which distinguished 
his dwelling. It was not, however, until roused by the 
entreaties of his wife, a woman who seems to have been 
of an heroic spirit, that he was induced to deliberate 
with his friends upon the measures by which Switzerland 
was finally delivered. 



Nor look nor tone revealeth aught 
Save woman's quietness of thought j 
And yet around her is a light 
Of inward majesty and might. M. J. J. 
* * * * » 

Wer solch ein herz an seinen Busen druckt, 
Der kann fur herd und hof mit freuden fechten. 
Wmiioln 



* Originally published, as well as several other of these Records, 
in the New Monthly Magazine, 



It was the time when children bound to meet 
Their father's homeward step from field or hill, 

And when the herd's returning bells are sweet 
In the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow still. 

And the last note of that wild horn swells by. 

Which haunts the exile's heart with melody. 

And lovely smiled full many an Alpine home, 
Touch'd with the crimson of the dying hour. 

Which lit its \o\\ roof by the torrent's foam. 
And pierced its lattice through the vine-hung 
bower ; 

But one, the loveliest o'er the land that rose. 

Then first look'd mournful in its green repose. 

For Werner sat beneath the linden-tree. 
That sent its lulling whispers through his door, 

Ev'n as man sits whose heart alone would be 
With some deep care, and thus can find no more 

Th' accustom'd joy in all which evening brings. 

Gathering a household with her quiet wings. 

His wife stood hush'd before him. — sad, yet mild 
In her beseeching mien ; — he mark'd it not. 

The silvery laughter of his bright-hair'd child 
Rang from the greensward round the sheltered 
spot. 

But seem'd unheard ; until at last the boy 

Raised from his heap'd-up flowers a glance of joy. 

And met his father's face : but then a change 
Pass'd svi'iftly o'er the brow of infant glee. 

And a quick sense of something dimly strange 
Brought him from play to stand beside the knee 

So often climb'd, and lift his loving eyes 

That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise. 

Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook ; 

But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid 
Her hand on his, and with a pleading look, 
Thro' tears half quivering, o'er him bent, and 
said, 
" What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its 

prey. 
That thoii shouldst turn thee from our love away ? 

"It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend ! 

Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow. 
Missing the smile from thine? Oh! cheer thee! 
bend 

To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now ! 
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share 
Of tried affection in thy secret care." 

He look'd up into that sweet earnest face. 
But sternly, mournfully : not yet the band 

Was loosen'd from his soul ; its inmost place 
Not yet unveil'd by love's o'ermastering hand. 

" Speak low !" he cried, and pointed vi'hm-e on high 

The white Alps glitter'd through the solemn sky : 



172 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



" We must speak low amiilst our ancient hills 
And their free torrents; for the days are come 

When tyranny lies couch'd by forest-rills, 
And meets the shepherd in his mountain-home. 

Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear, 

Keep silence by the hearth! its foes are near. 

" The envy of the oppressor's eye hath been 

Upon my heritage. I sit to-night 
Under my household tree, if not serene, 

Yet with the faces best-beloved in sight: 
To-raorrow eve may find me chain'd, and thee — 
How can I bear the boy's young smiles to see ?" 

The bright blood left that youthful mother's cheek ; 

Back on the linden-stem she lean'd her form, 
And her lip trembled, as it strove to speak. 

Like a frail harp-string, shaken by the storm. 
'Twas but a moment, and the faintness pass'd, 
And the free Alpine spirit woke at last. 

And she, that ever through her home had moved 
With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile 

Of woman, calmly loving and beloved. 
And timid in her happiness the while, 

Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour, 

Her clear glance kindling into sudden power. 

Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light, 
And took her fair child to her holy breast, 

And lifted her soft voice, that gather'd might 
As it found language :^"Are we thus oppress'd ? 

Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod. 

And man must arm, and woman call on God ! 

"I know what thou wouldst do,— and be it done ! 

Thy soul is darken'd with its fears for me. 
Trust me to Heaven, my husband I— this, thy son, 

The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free! 
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth 
May well give strength— if aught be strong on 
earth. 

"Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread 
Of my desponding tears ; now lift once more, 

My hunter of the hills I thy stately head. 
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore ! 

I can bear all, but seeing thee subdued, — 

Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood. 

"Go forth beside the waters, and along 
The chamois-paths, and through the forests go ; 

And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong 
To the brave hearts that 'midst the hamlets glow. 

God shall be with thee, my beloved ! — Away ! 

Bless but thy child, and leave me, — I can pray!" 

He sprang up like a warrior-youth awaking 
To clarion-sounds upon the ringing air; 

He caught her to his breast, while proud tears 
breaking 
From his dark eyes, fell o'er her braided hair, — 

And "Worthy art thou," was his joyous cry, 

"That man for thee should gird himself to die. 



" My bride, my wife, the mother of my child ! 

Now shall thy name be armour to my heart ; 
And this our land, by chains no more defiled, 

Be taught of thee to choose the better part ! 
I go— thy spirit on my words shall dwell. 
Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps— Farewell !" 

And thus they parted, by the quiet lake. 
In the clear starlight : he. the strength to rouse 

Of the free hills; she, thoughtful for his sake, 
To rock her child beneath the whispering boughs 

Singing its blue, half-curtain'd eyes to sleep. 

With a low hymn amidst the stillness deep. 



PROPERZIA ROSSI. 



Properzia Rossi, a celebrated female sculptor of Bo- 
logna, possessed also of talents for poetry and music, 
died in consetjuence of an unrequited attachment— A 
painting by Duels, represents her showing her last work, 
a basso-relievo of Ariadne, to a Roman Knight, the ob- 
ject of her affection, who regards it with indifference. 



- Tell me no more, no more 



Of my soul's lofty gifis ! Are they not vain 
To quench ils haunting thirst for happiness ? 
Have I not loved, and striven, and fail'd to bind 
One true heart unto me, whereon my own 
Might find a resting-place, a home for all 
Its buiden of atfections ? I depart, 
Unknown, tho' Fame goes with me ; I must leave 
The earth unknown. Yet it may be that death 
Shall give my name a power to win such tears 
As would have made life precious. 



One dream of passion and of beauty more ! 
And in its bright fulfiltnent let me pour 
My soul away ! Let earth retain a trace 
Of that which lit my being, tho' its race 
Might have been loftier far.— Yet one more dream ! 
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam 
Ere I depart! For thee alone, for thee ! 
May this last work, this farewell triumph be. 
Thou, loved so vainly ! I would leave enshrined 
Something immortal of my heart and mind. 
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone. 
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone 
Of lost aflfection ; — something that may prove 
What she hath been, whose melancholy love 
On thee was lavish'd; silent pang and tear. 
And fervent song, that gush'd when none were 

near. 
And dream by night, and weary thought by day, 
Stealing the brightness from her life away, — 

While thou Awake! not yet within me die, 

Under the burden and the agony 

Of this vain tenderness,— my spirit, wake! 

Ev'n for thy sorrowful affection's sake. 

Live ! in thy work breathe out !— that he may yet, 

Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret 

Thine unrequited gift. 

II. 

It comes, — the power 
Within me born, flows back ; my fruitless dower 
That could not win me love. Yet once again 
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train 
Of glorious images:— they throng— they press — 
A sudden joy lights up my loneliness, — 
I shall not perisli all ! 

The bright work grows 
Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose, 
Leaf after leaf, to beauty ; line by line, 
I fix my thought, heart, soul, to barn, to shine, 
Thro' the pale marble's veins. It grows— and now 
I give my own life's history to thy brow. 
Forsaken Ariadne ! thou shalt wear 
My form, my lineaments ; but oh ! more fair, 
Touch'd into lovelier being by the glow 

Which in me dwells, as by the summer-light 
All things are glorified. From thee my woe 
Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight. 
When I am pass'd away. Thou art the mould 
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold. 
The self-consuming ! Speak to him of me, 
Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea. 
With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye. 
Speak to him, lorn one ! deeply, mournfully, 
Of all my love and grief! Oh! could I throw 
Into thy frame a voice, a sweet, and low, 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



173 



And thrilling voice of song ! when he came nigh, 
To send the passion of its melody 
Through his pierced bosom — on its tones to bear 
My life's deep feeling, as the southern air 
Wafts the faint myrtle's breath,— to rise, to swell. 
To sink away in accents of farewell. 
Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow 
Surely my parted spirit yet might know, 
If love be strong as death ! 

III. 

Now fair thou art. 
Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart ! 
Yet all the vision that within me wrought, 

I cannot make thee ! Oh ! I might have given 
Birth to creations of far nobler thought, 

I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven, 
Things not of such as die ! But I have been 
Too much alone; a heart whereon to lean. 
With all these deep aflections, that o'erflow 
My aching soul, and find no shore below ; 
An eye to be my star, a voice to bring 
Hope o'er my patli, like sounds that breathe of 

spring. 
These are denied me — dreamt of still in vain, — 
Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain, 
Are ever but as some wild fitful song. 
Rising triumphantly, to die ere long 
In dirge-like echoes. 

IV. 

Yet the world vvill see 
Little of this, my parting work, in thee. 

Thou shalt have fame ! Oh, mockery ! give the reed 
From storms a shelter, — give the drooping vine 
Somethi n ground which its tendrils may en twine,— 
Give the parch'd flower a rain-drop, and the meed 
Of love's kind words to woman ! Worthless fame ! 
That in his bosom wins not for my name 
Th' abiding-place it ask'd ! Yet how my heart. 
In its own fairy world of song and art, 
Once beat for praise! — Are those high longings o'er? 
That which I have been can I be no more ?— 
Never, oh ! never more ; tliough still thy sky 
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy I 
And tho' the music, whose rich breathings fill 
Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still, 
And tho' the mantle of thy sunlight streams. 
Unchanged on forms, instinct with poet-dreams; 
Never, oh! never more I Where'er I move, 
The shadow of this broken-hearted love 
Is on me and around ! Too well they know, 

Whose life is all within, too soon and well. 
When there the blight hath settled ;— but I go 

Under the silent wings of peace to dwell ; 
From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain, 
The inward burning of those words — " in vain" 
Sear'd on the heart — I go. 'Twill soon be past. 
Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven. 
And thou, oh ! thou, on whom my spirit cast 
Unvalued wealth, — who know'st not what was 

given 
In that devotedness, — the sad, and deep. 
And unrepaid — farewell 1 If I could weep 
Once, only once, belov'd one I on thy breast, 
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest! 
But that were happiness, and unto me 
Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was form'd to be 
So richly blest 1 With thee to watch the sky. 
Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh; 
With thee to listen, while the tones of song 
Swept ev'n as part of our sweet air along, 
To listen silently ;— with thee to gaze 
On forms, the deified of olden days. 
This had been joy enough;— and hour by hour, 
Prom its glad well-springs drinking life and power, 
How had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame 

A glory for thy brow ! — Dreams, dreams !— the fire 
Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name — 

As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre 
When its full chords are hush'd— awhile to live. 
And one day haply in thy heart revive 
Sad thoughts of nie : — I leave it, with a sound, 
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound, 
I leave it, on my country's air to dwell, — 
Say proudly yet — " ' Twas her's who limed me well .'" 



GERTRUDE, 

OR 

FIDELITY TILL DEATH. 



The Baron Von der Wart, accused, though it is 
believed unjustly, as an accomplice in the assassination 
of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, 
and attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last 
asonizing hours, with the most heroic devotedness. Her 
own sufferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, 
are most aftectingly described in a letter which she after- 
wards addressed to a female friend, and which was pub- 
lished some years ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled 
Gertrude Von der Wart, or Fidelity unto Death. 



Dark lowers our fate, 
And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us ; 
But notliing, till that latest agony 
Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose 
This &x'd and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house, 
In the terrific face of armed law. 
Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must he, 
I never will forsake thee. 

Joanna Baillie. 



Her hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised, 

The breeze threw back her hair ; 
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed — 

All that she loved was there. 
The night was round her clear and cold, 

The holy heaven above. 
Its pale stars watching to behold 

The might of earthly love. 

" And bid me not depart," she cried, 

"My Rudolph, say not so ! 
This is no time to quit thy side. 

Peace, peace! I cannot go. 
Hath the world aught for me to fear, 

When death is on thy brow? 
The world ! what means it 1—mine is here— 

I will not leave thee now. 

"I have been with thee in thine hour 

Of glory and of bliss ; 
Doubt not its memory's living power 

To strengthen me through this! 
And thou, mine honour'd love and true. 

Bear on, bear nobly on ! 
We have the blessed heaven in view, 

Wliose rest shall soon be won." 

And were not these high words to flow 

From woman's breaking heart ? 
Through all that night of bitterest woe, 

She bore her lofty part ; 
Blit oh ! with such a glazing eye. 

With such a curdling cheek — ■ 
Love, love 1 of mortal agony. 

Thou, only thou shouldst speak ! 

The wind rose high, — but with it rose 

Her voice, that he might hear : 
Perchance that dark hour brought repose 

To happy bosoms near; 
While she "sat striving with despair 

Beside his tortured form, 
And pouring her deep soul in prayer 

Forth on the rushing storm. ' 

She wiped the death-damps from his brow, 

With her pale hands and soft. 
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low. 

Had still'd his heart so oft. 
She spread her mantle o'er his breast. 

She bathed his lips with dew, 
And on his cheeks such kisses press'd 

As hope and joy ne'er knew. 



174 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Oh ! lovely are ye, Love and Faith, 

Enduring to the last ! 
She had her meed — one smile in death — 

And his worn spirit pass'd. 
While ev'n as o'er a martyr's grave 

She knelt on that sad spot, 
And, weeping, bless'd the God vs^ho gave 

Strength to forsake it not ! 



I M E L D A. 



-Sometimes 



The young forgot the lessons they had learnt, 

And loved when they should hate, — like thee, Imelda ! (4) 

Italy, a Poem. 

Passa la bella Donna, e par che dorma. 

Tasso. 



We have the myrtle's breath around us here. 

Amidst the fallen pillars;— this hath been 
Some Naiad's fane of old. How brightly clear. 

Flinging a vein of silver o'er the scene, 
Up through the shadowy grass, the fountain wells, 

And music with it, gushing from beneath 
The ivied altar ! — that sweet murmur tells 

The rich wild flowers no tale of woe or death ; 
Yet once the wave was darken'd, and a stain 
Lay deep, and heavy drops — but not of rain — 
On the dim violets by its marble bed, 
And the pale shining water-lily's head. 

Sad is that legend's truth. — A fair girl met 

One whom she loved, by this lone temple's spring. 
Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set, 

And eve's low voice in whispers woke, to bring 
All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle pair, 

With the blue heaven of Italy above, 
And citron-odours dying on the air. 

And light leaves trembling round, and early love 
Deep in each breast. — What reck'd their souls of 

strife 
Between their fathers ? Unto them young life 
Spread out the treasures of its vernal years ; 
And if they wept, they wept far other tears 
Than the cold world wrings forth. They stood, 

that hour. 
Speaking of hope, while tree, and fount, and flower. 
And star, just gleaming thro' the cypress boughs, 
Seem'd holy things, as records of their vows. 

But change came o'erthe scene. A hurrying tread 

Broke on the whispery shades. Imelda knew 
The footstep of her brother's wrath, and fled 

Up where the cedars make yon avenue 
Dim with green twilight: pausing there, she caught. 
Was it the clash of swords?— a swift dark thought 

Struck down her lip's rich crimson as it pass'd, 
And from her eye the sunny sparkle took 
One moment with its fearfulness, and shook 

Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy blast 
Might rock the rose. Once more, and yet once 

more. 
She still'd her heart to listen, — all was o'er ; 
Sweet summer winds alone were heard to sigh. 
Bearing the nightingale's deep spirit by. 

That night Imelda's voice was in the song. 
Lovely it floated through the festive throng. 
Peopling her father's halls. That fatal night 
Her eye look'd starry in its dazzling light, 
And her cheek glow'd with beauty's flushing dyes, 
Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies, 
A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze 
Follow'd her form beneath the clear lamp's blaze. 
And marvell'd at its radiance. But a few 
Beheld the brightness of that feverish hue, 



With something of dim fear; and in that glance 

Found strange and sudden tokens of unrest. 
Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance, 

Where thought, if present, an unbidden guest. 
Comes not unmask'd. Howe'er this were, the time 
Sped as it speeds with joy, and grief, and crime 
Alike : and when the banquet's hall was left 
Unto its garlands of their bloom bereft. 
When trembling stars look'd silvery in their wane. 
And heavy flowers yet slumber'd, once again 
There stole a footstep, fleet, and light, and lone, 
Through the dim cedar shade ; the step of one 
That started at a leaf, of one that fled. 
Of one that panted with some secret dread : — 
What did Imelda there? She sought the scene 
Where love so late with youth and hope had 

been ; 
Bodings were on her soul — a shuddering thrill 
Ran through each vein, when first the Naiad's rill 
Met her with melodj' — sweet sounds and low; 
IVc hear them yet, they live along its flow — 
Her voice is music lost ! The fountain-side 
She gain'd— the vi^ave flash'd forth— 'twas darkly 

dyed 
Ev'n as from warrior-hearts; and on its edge, 

Amidst the fern, and flowers, and moss-tufts deep, 
There lay, as luU'd by stream and rustling sedge, 

A youth, a graceful youth. " Oh ! dost thou sleep ? 
Azzo!" she cried, "my Azzo ! is this rest?" 
But then her low tones falteT'd : — " On thy breast 
Is the stain,— yes, 'tis blood !— and that cold cheek, 
Thatmovelesslip! — thoudost not slumber? — speak, 
Speak, Azzo, my beloved !— no sound — no breath — 
What hath come thus between our spirits ?-Death ! 
Death ? — I but dream — I dream !" — and there she 

stood, 

A faint, frail trembler, gazing first on blood. 
With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown, 
Her form sustain'd by that dark stem alone. 
And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old, 
Into white waves dissolving, clear and cold ; 
When from the grass her dimm'd eye caught a 

gleam — 
'Twas where a sword lay shiver'd by the stream, — 
Her brother's sword ! — she knew it ; and she knew 
'T was with a venom'd point that weapon slew ! 
Woe for young love ! But love is strong. There 

came 
Strength upon woman's fragile heart and frame, 
There came swift conrage ! On the dewy ground 
She knelt, with all her dark hair floating round, 
Like a long silken stole ; she knelt, and press'd 
Her lips of glowing life to Azzo's breast. 
Drawing the poison forth. A strange, sad sight ! 
Pale death, and fearless love, and solemn night ! — 
So the moon saw them last. 



The morn came singing 

Through the green forests of the Apennines, 
With all her joyous birds their free flight winging, 

And steps and voices out among the vines. 
What found that day-spring here? Two fair forms 

laid 
Like sculptured sleepers; from the myrtle shade 
Casting a gleam of beauty o'er the wave, 
Still, mournful, sweet. Were such things for the 

grave ? 
Could it be so indeed ? That radiant girl, 
Deck'd as for bridal hours! — long braids of pearl 
Amidst her shadowy locks were faintly shining, 

As tears might shine, with melancholy light ; 
And there was gold her slender waist entwining- 

And her pale graceful arms — how sadly bright ! 
And fiery gems upon her breast were lying. 
And round her marble brow red roses dying. — 
But she died first !— the violet's hue had spread 

O'er her sweet eyelids with repose oppress'd. 
She had bow'd heavily her gentle head. 

And, on the youth's hush'd bosom, sunk to rest 
So slept they well!— the poison's work was done ' 
Love with true heart had striven— but Death had 
won. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



175 



EDITH, 

A TALE OF THE WOODS.' 



Du Heilige ! rufe dein Kind zuruck ! 
Ich babe geuossen daa irdische Gluck, 
Ich babe gelebt und geliebet. 



The woods— oil solemn are the boundless woods 

Of tlie great Western World, when day declines, 
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods. 

More deep the rustling of the ancient pines ; 
When dimness gathers on the stilly air, 

And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood. 
Awful it is for human heart to bear 

The might and l)urden of the solitude ! 
Yet, in that hour, 'midst those green wastes, there 

sate 
One young and fair ; and oh ! how desolate ! 
But undismay'd ; while sank the crimson light, 
And the high cedars darken'd with the night. 
Alone she sate ; though many lay around. 
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground. 
Were sever'd from her need and from her woe, 

Far as Death severs Life. O'er that wild spot 
Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low, 

And left them, with the history of their lot. 
Unto the forest oaks. A fearful scene 
For her whose home of other days had been 
'Midst the fair halls of England ! but the love 

Which fill'd her soul was strong to cast out fear, 
And by its might upborne all else above. 
She "shrank not— mark'd not that the dead were 
near. 
Of him alone she thought, whose languid head 

Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell ; 
Memory of aught but him on earth was fled. 

While heavily she fell his life-blood well 
Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound 
With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound. 
Yet hoped, still hoped !— Oh ! from such hope how 
long 
Afi'ection wooes the whispers that deceive, 
Ev'n when the pressure of dismay grows strong. 

And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne'er believe 
The blow indeed can fall ! So bow'd she there. 
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer 
Fill'd all "her soul. Now pour'd the moonlight 

down, 
Veining the pine-stems through the foliage brown. 
And fire-flies, kindling up the^leafy place. 
Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face. 
Whereby she caught its changes ; to her eye. 
The eye that faded look'd through gathering 
haze. 
Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony. 

Lifted a long deep melancholy gaze. 
When voice was not : that fond sad meaning 

pass'd — 
She knew the fullness of her woe at last ! 
One shriek the forests heard,— and mute she lay, 
And cold ; yet clasping still the precious clay 
To her scarce-heaving breast. O Love and Death ! 
Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth. 
Many and sad! but airs of heavenly breath 
Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth 
Is far apart. 

Now light, of richer hue 
Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew ; 
The pines grew red with morning ; fresh winds 

play'd, 
Bright-coiour'd birds with splendour cross'd the 

shade. 
Flitting on flower-like wings ; glad murmurs broke 
From reed, and spray, and leaf, the living strings 
Of earth's Eolian lyre, whose music woke 
Into young life and joy all happy things. 
And she too woke from that long dreamless trance. 
The widow'd Edith : fearfully her glance 



* Fomded on incidenls related in an American work, " SkelcheE 
of Connecticut." 



Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange. 
And dusky forms. ^ A sudden sense of change 
Flash'd o'er her spirit, ev-n ere memory swept 
The tide of anguish back with thoughts that slept; 
Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread 
Her arms, as 'twere for something lost or fled, 
Then faintly sank again. The forest-hough. 
With all its whispers, waved not o'er her now, — 
Where was she ? 'Midst the people of the wild. 

By the red hunter's fire : an aged chief. 
Whose home look'd sad — for therein play'd no 
child- 
Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief. 
To that lone cabin of the woods ; and there, 
Won by a form so desolately fair. 
Or touch'd with thoughts from some past sorrow 

sprung. 
O'er her low couch an Indian matron bung. 
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye. 
The ancient warrior of the waste stood by. 
Bending in watchfulness his proud gray head. 
And leaning on his bo\v. 

And life return'd, 
Life, but with all its memories of the dead. 

To Edith's heart; and well the sufferer learn'd 
Her task of meek endurance, well she wore 
The chasten'd grief that humbly can adore, 
'Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair, 
Ev'n as a breath of spring's awakening air, 
Her presence was ; or as a sweet wild tune 
Bringing back tender tlioughts, which all too soon 
Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen 

A daughter to the land of spirits go. 
And ever from that time her fading mien. 

And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low, 
Had haunted their dim years ; but Edith's face 
Now look'd in holy sweetness from her place, 
And they again seem'd parents. Oh ! the joy. 
The rich, deep blessedness — though earth's alloy. 
Pear that still bodes, be there — of pouring forth 
The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and 

worth 
Of strong afiection, in one healthful flow. 
On something all its own!— that kindly glow, 
Which to shut inward is consuming pain. 
Gives the glad soul its flowering time again. 
When, like the sunshine, freed. — And gentle cares 
Th' adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs 
Who loved her thus:— her spirit dwelt, the while, 
With the departed, and her patient smile 
Spoke of farewells to earth ;— yet still she pray'd, 
Ev'n o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid 
One purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace 
Brightly recording that her dwelling-place 
Had been amonglhe wilds ; for well she knew 
The secret whisper of her bosom true. 
Which warn'd her hence. 

And now, by many a word 
Link'd unto moments when the heart was stirr'd. 
By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn. 
Sung when the woods at eve grew hush'd and dim. 
By the persuasion of her fervent eye, 
All eloquent with child-like piety, 
By the still beauty of her life, she strove 
To win for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the 

love 
Pour'd out on her so freely.— Nor in vain 
Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain 
The soul in gentle bonds: by slow degrees 
Light followed on, as when a summer breeze 
Parts the deep masses of the forest shade 
And lets the sunbeam through :— her voice was 

made 
Ev'n such a breeze ; and she, a lowly guide, 
By faith and sorrow raised and purified. 
So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led, 
Until their prayers were one. When morning 

spread 
O'er the blue lake, and when the sunset's glow 
Touch'd into golden bronze the cypress-bough. 
And when the quiet of the Sabbath time 
Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime 
Waken'd the wilderness, their prayers were one. 
— Now might she pass in hope, her work was done. 
And she was passing from the woods away ; 
The broken flower of England might not stay 



176 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Amidst those alien shades ; her eye was bright 
Ev'n yet with something of a starry light, 
But her forin wasted, and her fair young cheek 
Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak, 
A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh 
Of autumn through the forests had gone by. 
And the rich maple o'er her wanderings lone 
Its crimson leaves in many a shower had strown. 
Flushing the air ; and winter's blast had been 
Amidst the pines; and now a softer green 
Fringed their dark boughs ; for spring again had 

come, 
The sunny spring ! but Edith to her home 
Was journeying fast. Alas! we think it sad 
To part with life, when all the earth looks glad 
In her young lovely things, when voices break 
Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake: 
Is it not brighter then, in that far clime 
Where graves are not, nor blights of cha ngeful time, 
If here such glory dwell with passing blooms, 
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs? 
So thought the dying one. 'Twas early day. 
And sounds and odours with the breezes' play. 
Whispering of spring-time, through the cabi,n-door. 
Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore ; 
Then with a look where all her hope awoke, 
"My father!" — to the gray-hair'd chief she spoke — 
" Know'st thou that I depart?" — "I know, I 

know," 
He answer'd mournfully, " that thou must go 
To thy beloved, my daughter!" — " Sorrow not 
For me, kind mother !" with meek smiles once 

more 
She murmur'd in low tones ; " one happy lot 
Awaits, us, friends ! upon the better shore ; 
For we have pray'd together in one trust. 
And lifted our frail spirits from the dust. 
To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own, 
Under the cedar-shade : where he is gone 
Thither I go. There will my sisters be. 
And the dead parents, lisping at whose knee 
My childhood's prayer was learn'd, — the Saviour's 

prayer 
Which now ije know, — and I shall meet you there, 
Father, and gentle mother! — ye have bound 
The bruised reed, and mercy shall be found 
By Mercy's chrldren."— From the matron's eye 
Dropp'd tears, her sole and passionate reply ; 
But Edith felt them not; for now a sleep, 
Solemnly beautiful, a stillness deep. 
Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow, 
And mantling up his stately head in woe, 
" Thou'rt passing hence," he sang, that warrior old, 
In sounds like those by plaintive waters roU'd. 



" Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side. 

And the hunter's hearth away; 
For the time of flowers, for the summer's pride, 

Daughter ! thou canst not stay. 

Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home, 

Where the skies are ever clear ; 
The corn-month's golden hours will come, 

But they shall not find thee here. 

And we shall miss thy voice, my bird ! 

Under our whispering pine ; 
Music shall 'midst the leaves be heard. 

But not a song like thine. 

A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill, 

Telling of winter gone, 
Hath such sweet falls — yet caught we still 

A farewell in its tone. 

But thou, my bright one ! thou shalt be 

Where farewell sounds are o'er; 
Thou, in the eyes thou lov'st, shalt see 

No fear of parting more. 

The mossy grave thy tears have wet. 
And the wind's wild moanings by, 

Thou with thy kindred shalt forget, 
'Midst flowers— not such as die. 



The shadow from thy brow shall melt, 

The sorrow from thy strain. 
But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt, 

Our hearts shall thirst in vain. 

Dim will our cabin be, and lone. 

When thou, its light, art fled ; 
Yet hath thy step the pathway shown 

Unto the happy dead. 

And we will follow thee, our guide ! 
And join that shining band ; 

Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side- 
Go to the better land !" 



The song had ceased — the listeners caught no 

breath. 
That lovely sleep had melted into death. 



THE INDIAN CITY. 



What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it. 

Childe Harold. 



I. 

Royal in splendour went down the day 

On the plain where an Indian city lay. 

With its crown of domes o'er the forest high, 

Red as if fused in the burning sky. 

And its deep groves pierced by the rays which made 

A bright stream's way through each long arcade, 

Till the pillar'd vaults of the Banian stood, 

Like torch-lit aisles 'midst the solemn wood, 

And the plantain glitter'd with leaves of gold. 

As a tree 'midst the genii-gardens old. 

And the cypress lifted a blazing spire. 

And the stems of the cocoas were shafts of fire. 

Many a white pagoda's gleam 

Slept lovely round upon lake and stream. 

Broken alone by the lotus-flowers. 

As they caught the glow of tlie sun's last hours. 

Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed 

Its glory forth on their crystal bed. 

Many a graceful Hindoo maid. 

With the water-vase froin the palmy shade, 

Came gliding light as the desert's roe, 

Down marble steps to the tanks below; 

And a cool sweet plashing was ever heard. 

As the molten glass of the wave was stirr'd; 

And a murmur, thrilling the scented air. 

Told where the Bramin bow'd in prayer. 

There wander'd a noble Moslem boy 

Through the scene of beauty in breathless joy ; 

He gazed where the stately city rose 

Like a pageant of clouds in its red repose ; 

He tnrn'd where birds through the gorgeous gloom 

Of the woods went glancing on starry plume ; 

He track'd the brink of the shining lake. 

By the tall canes feather'd in tuft and brake. 

Till the path he chose, in its mazes wound 

To the very heart of the holy ground. 

And there lay the water, as if enshrined 
In a rocky urn from the sun and wind, 
Bearing the hues of the grove on high. 
Far down through its dark still purity. 
The flood beyond, to the fiery west 
Spread out like a metal-mirror's breast, 
But that lone bay, in its dimness deep, 
Seeni'd made forthe swimmer's joyous leap. 
For the stag athirst from the noontide chase. 
For all free things of the wild-wood's race. 

Like a falcon's glance on the wide blue sky. 
Was the kindling flush of the boy's glad eye. 
Like a sea-bird's flight to the foaming wave, 
From the shadowy bank was the bound be gave ; 

* From a tale in Forbes' Oriental Memoirs. 



RECORDS OP WOMAN. 



177 



Dashing the spray-drops, cold and white, 
O'er tlie glossy leaves in his young delight, 
And bowing his locks to the waters clear — 
Alas ! he dreamt not that fate was near. 

His mother look'd from her tent the while. 

O'er heaven and earth with a quiet smile : 

She, on her way unto Mecca's fane, 

Had stay'd the march of her pilgrim-train, 

Calmly to linger a few brief liours. 

In the Bramin city's glorious bowers; 

For the pomp of the forest, the wave's bright fall. 

The red gold of sunset— she loved them all. 

II. 

The moon rose clear in the splendour given 
To the deep-blue night of an Indian heaven; 
The boy from the high-arch'd woods came back — 
Oh ! vs'hat had he met in his lonely track ? 
The serpent's glance, thro' the long reeds bright ? 
The arrowy spring of the tiger's might ? 
No !— yet as one by a conflict worn, 
With his graceful hair all soil'd and torn. 
And a gloom on the lids of his darken'd eye. 
And a gash on his bosom — he came to die! 
He look'd for the face to his young heart sweet. 
And found it, and sank at his mother's feet. 

" Speak to me ! — whence doth the swift blood run? 

What hath befall'n thee, my child, my son ?" 

The mist of death on his brow lay pale. 

But his voice just linger'd to breathe the tale. 

Murmuring faintly of wrongs and scorn. 

And wounds from the children of Brahma borne : 

This was the doom for a Moslem found 

With foot profane on their holy ground. 

This was for sullying the pure waves free 

Unto them alone — 'twas their God's decree. 

A change came over his wandering look — 

The mother shriek'd not then, nor shook : 

Breathless she knelt in her son's young blood. 

Rending her mantle to staunch its flood : 

But it rush'd like a river which none may stay 

Bearing a flower to the deep away. 

That which our love to the earth would chain. 

Fearfully striving with Heaven in vain. 

That which fades from us, while yet we hold, 

Clasp'd to our bosoms, its mortal mould. 

Was fleeting before her, afar and fast ; 

One moment— the soul from the face had pass'd! 

Are there no words for that common woe ? 
— Ask of the thousands, its depth that know! 
The boy had breathed, in his dreaming rest. 
Like a low-voiced dove, on her gentle breast: 
He had stood, when she sorrow'd, beside her knee. 
Painfully stilling his quick heart's glee ; 
He had kiss'd from her cheek the widow's tears. 
With the loving lip of his infant years ; 
He had smiled o'er her path like a bright spring- 
day— 
Now in his blood on the earth he lay! 
Murder' il! — Alas ! and we love so well 
In a world where anguish like this can dwell ! 

She bow'd down mutely o'er her dead — 
They that stood round her watch'd in dread ; 
They watch'd — she knew not they were by — 
Her soul sat veil'd in its agony. 
On the silent lip she press'd no kiss, 
Too stern was the grasp of her pangs for this; 
She shed no tear as her face bent low. 
O'er the shining hair of the lifeless brow ; 
She look'd but into the half-shut eye. 
With a gaze that found there no reply. 
And shrieking, mantled her head from sight. 
And fell, struck down by her sorrow's might I 

And what deep change, what work of power. 
Was wrought on her secret soul that hour ? 
How rose the lonely one ? — She rose 
Like a prophetess from dark repose ! 
And proudly flung from her face the veil. 
And shook the hair from her forehead pale, 

23 



And 'midst her wondering handmaids stood, 

With the sudden glance of a dauntless mood. 

Ay, lifting up to the midnight sky 

A brow in its regal passion high. 

With a close and rigid grasp she press'd 

The blood-stain'd robe to her heaving breast, 

And said — " Not yet— not yet I weep. 

Not yet my spirit shall sink or sleep. 

Not till yon city, in ruins rent. 

Be piled for its victim's monument. 

— Cover his dust I bear it on before ! 

It shall visit those temple-gates once more." 

And away in the train of the dead she turn'd. 
The strength of her step was the heart that burn'd ; 
And the Bramin groves in the starlight smiled. 
As the mother pass'd with her slaughter'd child. 

III. 

Hark ! a wild sound of the desert's horn 

Through the woods round the Indian city borne, 

A peal of the cymbal and tambour afar — 

War! 'tis the gathering of Moslem war! 

The Bramin look'd from the leaguer'd towers — 

He saw the wild archer amidst his bowers; 

And the lake that flash'd thro' the plan tain shade, 

As the light of the lances along it play'd ; 

And the canes that shook as if winds were high, 

When the fiery steed of the waste swept by; 

And the camp as it lay, like a billowy sea. 

Wide round the sheltering Banian tree. 

There stood one tent from the rest apart — 
That was the place of a wounded heart. 
— Oh ! deep is a wounded heart, and strong 
A voice that cries against mighty wrong ; 
And full of death, as a hot wind's blight. 
Doth the ire of a crush'd afiection light. 

Maimuna from realm to realm had pass'd. 
And her tale had rung like a trumpet's blast. 
There had been words from her pale lips pour'd, 
Each one a spell to unsheathe the sword. 
The Tartar had sprung from his steed to hear. 
And the dark chief of Araby grasp'd his spear. 
Till a chain of long lances jjegirt the wall. 
And a vow was recorded that doom'd its fall. 

Back with the dust of her son she came. 

When her voice had kindled that lightning flame; 

She came in the might of a queenly foe. 

Banner, and javelin, and bended bow ; 

But a deeper power on her forehead sate — 

There sought the warrior his star of fate ; 

Her eye's wild flash through the tented line 

Was hail'd as a spirit and as a sign. 

And the faintest tone from her lip was caught, 

As a Sibyl's breath of prophetic thought. 

Vain, bitter glory ! — the gift of grief. 
That lights up vengeance to find relief, 
Transient and faithless ! — it cannot fill 
So the deep void of the heart, nor still 
The yearning left by a broken tie. 
That haunted fever of which we die ! 

Sickening she turn'd from her sad renown. 
As a king in death might reject his crown ; 
Slowly the strength of the walls gave way — 
She wither'd faster from day to day. 
All the proud sounds of that banner'd plain. 
To stay the flight of her soul were vain ; 
Like an eagle caged, it had striven, and worn 
The frail dust ne'er for such conflicts born. 
Till the bars were rent, and the hour was come 
For its fearful rushing through darkness home. 

The bright sun set in his pomp and pride. 
As on that eve when the fair boy died ; 
She gazed from her couch, and a softness fell 
O'er her weary heart with the day's farewell ; 
She spoke, and her voice in its dying tone 
Had an echo of feelings that long seem'd flown. 
She murmur'd a low sweet cradle song. 
Strange 'midst the din of a warrior throng, 



178 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



A song of the time when her boy's young cheek 
Had glow'd on her breast in its slumber meek ; 
But something which breathed from that mournfal 

strain 
Sent a litful gust o'er her soul again, 
And starting as if from a dream, she cried — 
'• Give him proud burial at my side ! 
There, by yon lake, where the palm-boughs wave. 
When the temples are fallen, make there our 

grave." 

And the temples fell, though the spirit pass'd, 
That stay'd not for victory's voice at last ; 
When the day was won for the martyr-dead. 
For the broken heart, and the bright blood shed. 

Thro' the gates of the vanquish'd the Tartar steed 
Bore in the avenger with foaming speed ; 
Free swept the flame through the idol-fanes. 
And the streams glow'd red, as from warrior-veins. 
And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay, 
Like the panther leapt on its flying prey, 
Till a city of ruin begirt the shade, 
Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid. 

Palace and tower on that plain were left. 
Like fallen trees by the lightning cleft : 
The wild vine mantled the stately square, 
The Rajah's throne was the serpent's lair. 
And the jungle grass o'er the altar sprung— 
This was the work of one deep heart wrung ! 



PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE. 



There is but one place in the world. 

Thither where he lies buried ! 

* * « * 

There, there is all that still remains of him, 
That single spot is the whole earth to me. 

Coleridg&'s Wallenstdn. 
Alas ! our young affections run to waste. 
Or water but the desert. 

Chilck. Harold. 



There went a warrior's funeral through the night, 
A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light 
Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown 
From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone, 
Far down the waters. Heavily and dead. 
Under the moaning trees the horse-hoofs tread 
In mufiled sounds upon the greensward fell. 
As chieftains pass'd ; and solemnly the swell 
Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river 
Borne with the gale, and with the leaves' low 

shiver, 
Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale. 

Wore man's mute anguish sternly ; — but of one 
Oh! who shall speak? What words his brow 
unveil ? 

A father following to the grave his son ! 
That is no grief to picture ! Sad and slow. 

Through the wood-shadows moved the knightly 
train, 
With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low. 

Fair even when found, amidst the bloody slain, 
Stretch'd by its broken lance. They reach'd the 
lone 

Baronial chapel, where the forest gloom 
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown 

Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb. 
Stately they trod the hollow-ringing aisle, 
A strange deep echo shudder'd through the pile, 



Till crested heads at last, in silence bent 
Round the De Coucis' antique monument. 
When dust to dust was given : — and Aymer slept 

Beneath the drooping banners of his line, 
Whose broider'd folds the Syrian wind had swept 

Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine : 
So the sad rite was closed. — The sculptor gave 
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave. 
And the pale image of a youth, array'd 
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid 

In slumber on his shield.— Then all was done. 
All still, around the dead. — His name was heard 
Perchance when wine-cups flow'd, and hearts were 
stirr'd 

By some old song, or tale of battle won. 
Told round the hearth : but in his father's breast 
Manhood's high passions woke again, and press'd 
On to their mark ; and in his friend's clear eye 
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by ; 
And with the brethren of his fields, the feast 
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had 

ceased 
Mingled with theirs. — Ev'n thus life's rushing tide 
Bears back aft'ection from the grave's dark side : 
Alas ! to think of this ! — the heart's void place 

Fiird up so soon ! — so like a summer-cloud. 
All that we loved to pass and leave no trace ! — 

He lay forgotten in his early shroud. 
Forgotten ? — not of all ! — the sunny smile 
Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile, 
And the dark locks whose breezy waving threw 
A gladness round, whene'er their shade withdrew 
From the bright brow ; and all the sweetness lying 

Within that eagle-eye's jet radiance deep. 
And all the music with that young voice dying. 

Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap 
As at a hunter's bugle — these things lived 
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived 
The pomps of kindred sorrow. — Day by day. 
On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay. 
Thro' the dim fane soft summer-odours breathing, 
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing. 
And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing 
In the rich liglit, like molten rubies flowing 
Through storied windows down. The violet there 
Might speak of love — a secret love and lowly. 
And the rose image all things fleet and fair. 
And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy, 
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand. 
As for an altar, wove the radiant band? 
Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells, 
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells. 
To blush through every season ? — Blight and chill 
Might touch the changing woods, but duly still, 
For years, those gorgeous coronals renew'd. 

And brightly clasping marble spear and helm. 
Even through mid-winter, fill'd the solitude 

With a strange smile, aglow of summer's realm. 
Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring 
Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring 
In lone devotedness ! 

One spring-morn rose. 

And found, within that tomb's proud shadow 
laid— 
Oh ! not as 'midst the vineyards, to repose 

From the fierce noon — a dark-hair'd peasant 
maid: 
Who could reveal her story ? — That still face 

Had once been fair ; for on the clear arch'd brow, 
And the curved lip, there linger'd yet such grace 

As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low 
The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eye — 
For death was on its lids — fell mournfully. 
But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair 
Dimm'djthe slight form all wasted, as by care. 
Whence came that early blight? — Her kindred's 

place 
Was not amidst the high De Couci race ; 
Yet there her shrine had been ! — She grasp'd a 

wreath — 
The tomb's last garland ! — This was love in death! 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



179 



INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATII-SONG. 



An Indian woman, driven to despair liy her husband's 
desertion of her for another wife, entered a canoe with 
her children, and rowed it down the Mississippi toward 
a cataract. Her voice was heard from the shore singing 
a mournful death-song, until overpowered by the sound 
of the waters in which she perished. The tale is related 
in Long's Expedition to the source of St. Peter's River. 

Nod, je ne puis vivre avec un coeur brise. XI faut que je retrouve 
la joie, et que je m'unisse aux esprits libres de Pair. 

Bride of Messina, Translated by Madame de Stael. 

Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman, 
r/ie Prainc. 



Down a broad river of the western wilds, 
Piercing thick forest glooms, a light canoe 
Swept with the current: fearful was the speed 
Of the frail bark, as by a tempest's wing 
Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray 
Rose with the cataract's thunder.— Vet within, 
Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone. 
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast, 
A woman stood : upon her Indian brow 
Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair waved 
As if triumphantly. She press'd her child. 
In its bright slumber, to her beating heart. 
And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile 
Above the sound of waters, high and clear. 
Wafting a wild proud strain, her song of death. 



Roll swiftly to the Spirit's land, thou mighty stream 

and free ! 
Father of ancient waters, (5) roll! and bear our 

lives with thee ! 
The weary bird that storms have toss'd, would 

seek the sunshine's calm, 
And the deer that hath the arrow's hurt, flies to 

the woods of balm. 

Roll on !— my warrior's eye hath look'd upon an- 
other's face. 

And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a 
moonbeam's trace; 

My shadow comes not o'er his path, my whisper 
to his dream. 

He flings away the broken reed— roll swifter yet, 
thou stream! 

The voice that spoke of other days is hush'd with- 
in his breast. 

But mine its lonely music haunts, and will not let 
me rest; 

It sings a low and mournful song of gladness that 
is gone, 

I cannot live without that light— Father of waves ! 
roll on ! 

Will he not miss the bounding step that met him 
from the chase ? 

The heart of love that made his home an ever- 
sunny place ? 

The hand that spread the hunter's board, and deck'd 
his couch of yore ? — 

He will not! — roll, dark foaming stream, on to the 
better shore ! 

Some blessed fount amidst the woods of that bright 

land must flow. 
Whose waters from my soul may lave the memory 

of this woe ; 
Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose 

breath may waft away 
The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of the 

day. 

And thou, my babe! though born, like me, for 

woman's weary lot. 
Smile !— to that wasting of the heart, my own ! I 

leave tliee not ; 



Too bright a thing art ihou to pine in aching love 

away. 
Thy mother bears thee far, young Fawn! from 

sorrow and decay. 

She bears thee to the glorious bowers where none 
are heard to weep. 

And where th' unkind one hath no power again 
to trouble sleep; 

And where the soul shall find its youth, as waken- 
ing from a dream, — 

One moment, and that realm is ours— On, on, dark 
rolling stream ! 



JOAN OF ARC, IN RHEIMS. 



Jeanne d'Arc avait eu la joie de voir a Chalons quel- 
ques amis de son enfance. Une joie plus ineffable encore 
I'attendait a Rheims, au sein de son triomphe: Jaques 
d'Arc, son pere y se trouva, aussitot que le troupes de 
Charles VII. y furent entrees ; et comme les deux fveres 
do notre Heroine I'avaient accompagnes, elle se vit, pour 
un instant au milieu de sa famille, dans les bras d'un 
pere vertueux. Vie de Jeanne d'Arc. 



Thon hast a charmed cup, Fame ! 

A draught that mantles high, 
And seems to lift this earth-born frame 

Above mortality : 
Away ! to me— a woman— bring 
Sweet waters from aifection's spring. 



That was a joyous day in Rheims of old. 
When peal on peal of mighty music roU'd 
Forth from her throng'd catliedral ; while around, 
A multitude, whose billows made no sound, 
Chain'd to a hush of wonder, though elate 
With victory, listen'd at their temple's gate. 
And what was done within ?— within, the light 

Thro' the rich gloom of pictured windowsflovving. 
Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight. 

The chivalry of France, their proud lieads bow- 
ing 
In martial vassalage ! — while 'midst that ring, 
And shadow'd by ancestral tombs, a king 
Received his birthright's crown. For this, the hymn 

Swell'd out like rushing waters, and the day 
With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim. 

As through long aisles it floated o'er th' array 
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone 
.And unapproach'd, beside the altar-stone, 
With the white banner, forth like sunshine 

streaming.. 
And the gold helm, through clouds of fragrance 

gleaming. 
Silent and radiant stood ?— the helm was raised, 
And the fair face reveal'd that upward gazed, 

Intensely worshipping : — a still, clear face. 
Youthful, but brightly solemn ! — Woman's cheek 
And brow vv'ere there, in deep devotion meek, 

Yet glorified with inspiration's trace 
On its pure paleness ; while, enthroned above, 
The pictured virgin, with her smile of love, 
Seem'd bending o'er her votaress. — That slight 

form ! 
Was that the leader through the battle storm ? 
Had the soft light in that adoring eye. 
Guided the vi'arrior where the swords flash'd high ? 
'T vi'as so, even so ! — and thou the shepherd's child, 
Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild ! 
Never before, and never since that hour. 
Hath woman, mantled with victorious power. 
Stood forth as thou beside the shrine didst stand. 
Holy amidst the knighthood of the land ; 
And beautiful with joy and with renown. 
Lift thy white banner o'er the olden crown, 
Ransom'd for France by thee ! 

The rites are done. 
Now let the dome with trumpet-notes be shaken 
And bid tlie echoes of tlie tombs awaken, 



180 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



And come thou forth, that Heaven's rejoicingsun 
May give thee welcome from thine own blue skies, 

Daughter of victory! — a triumphant strain, 
A proud rich stream of warlike melodies, 

Gush'd through the portals of the antique fane. 
And forth she came.— Then rose a nation's sound ! 
Oh ! what a power to bid the quick heart bound. 
The wind bears onward with the stormy cheer 
Man gives to glory on her high career ! 
Is there indeed such power? — far deeper dwells 
In one kind household voice, to reach the cells 
Whence happiness flow'd forth!— The shouts that 

fill'd 
The hollow heaven tempestuously, were still'd 
One moment ; and in that brief pause, the tone, 
As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown. 
Sank on the bright maid's heart. — "Joanne!" — 
who spoke 

Like those whose childhood with her childhood 
grew 
Under one roof?— "Joanne!" — that murmur broke 

With sounds of weeping forth ! — She turn'd — 
she knew 
Beside her, mark'd from all the thousands there, 
In the calm beauty of his silver hair. 
The stately shepherd ; and the youth, whose joy 
From his dark eye flash'd proudly ; and the boy, 
The youngest-born, that ever loved her best ; 
"Father! and ye, my brotners!" — On the breast 
Of that gray sire she sank — and swiftly back, 
Ev'n in an instant, to their native track 
Her free thoughts flow'd.— She saw the pomp no 

more — 
The plumes, the banners : — to her cabin-door, 
And to the Fairy's fountain in the glade, (6) 
Where her young sisters by her side had play'd, 
And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose 
Hallowing the forest unto deep repose, 
Her spirit turn'd. — The very wood-note, sung 

In early spring-time by the bird, which dwelt 
Where o'er her father's roof the beach-leaves hung. 

Was in her heart; a music heard and felt. 
Winning her back to nature.— She unbound 

The helm of many battles from her head. 
And, with her briglit locks bow'd to sweep the 
ground. 

Lifting her voice up, wept for joy, and said, — 
"Bless me, my father, bless me! and with thee, 
To the still cabin and the beechen-tree, 
Let me return !" 

Oh! never did thine eye 
Through the green haunts of happy infancy 
Wander again, Joanne! — too much of fame 
Had shed its radiance on thy peasant name ; 
And bought alone by gifts beyond all price, 
The trusting heart's repose, the paradise 
Of home with all its loves, doth fate allow 
The crown of glory unto woman's brow. 



PAULINE. 



To die for what we love !— Oh ! there is power 
In the true heart, and pride, and joy, for this ; 
It is to livt without the vanish'd light 
That strength is needed. 

Cosi trapassa al trapassar d^un Giorno 
Delia vita mortal il fiore e'l verde. 



Along the star-lit Seine went music swelling. 

Till the air thrill'd with its exulting mirth: 
Proudly it floated, even as if no dwelling 

For cares or stricken hearts were found on earth; 
And a glad sound the measure lightly beat, 
A happy chime of many dancing feet. 
For in a palace of the land that night. 

Lamps, and fresh roses, and green leaves were 
hung. 
And from the painted walls a stream of light 

On flying forms beneath soft splendour flung v 



But loveliest far amidst the revel's pride 
Was one, the lady from the Danube-side ? (7) 

Pauline, the meekly bright!— though now no more 
Her clear eye flash'd with youth's all tameless 
glee. 

Yet something holier than its dayspring wore, 
There in soft rest lay beautiful to see ; 

A charm withgraver, tenderer, sweetness fraught — 

The blending of deep love and matron thought. 

Through the gay throng she moved, serenely fair, 
And such calm joy as fills a moonlight sky, 

Sate on her brow beneath its graceful hair. 
As her young daughter in the dance went by. 

With the fleet step of one that yet hath known 

Smiles and kind voices in this v-'orld alone. 

Lurk'd there no secret boding in her breast ? 

Did no faint whisper warn of evil nigh ? 
Such oft awake when most the heart seems blest 

'Midst the light laughter of festivity: 
Whence come those tones! — Alas! enough we 

know, 
To mingle fear with all triumphal show! 

Who spoke of evil, when young feet were flying 
In fairy rings around the echoing hall? 

Soft airs through braided locks in perfume sighing. 
Glad pulses beating unto music's call ? 

Silence! — the minstrels pause — and hark! a sound, 

A strange quick rustling which their notes had 
drown'd ! 

And lo ! a light upon the dancers breaking — 

Not such their clear and silvery lamps had shed! 
From the gay dream of revelry avs'aking, 

One moment holds them still in breathless dread; 
The wild fierce lustre grows — then bursts a cry- 
Fire! through the hall and round it gathering — fly ! 

And forth they rush — as chased by sword and 
spear — 
To the green coverts of the garden-bowers; 
A gorgeous masque of pageantry and fear. 
Startling the birds and trampling down the 
flowers : 
While from the dome behind, red sparkles driven 
Pierce the dark stillness of the midnight heaven. 

And where is she, Pauline? — the hurrying throng 
Have swept her onward, as a stormy blast 

Might sweep some faint o'erwearied bird along — 
Till now the threshold of that death is past. 

And free she stands beneath the starry skies. 

Calling her child — but no sweet voice replies. 

" Bertha! where art thou ? — Speak, oh ! speak, my 
own !" 
Alas! unconscious of her pangs the while. 
The gentle girl, in fear's cold grasp alone. 

Powerless hath sunk within the blazing pile ; 
A young bright form, deck'd gloriously for death. 
With flowers all shrinking from the flame's fierce 
breath ! 

But oh! thy strength, deep love ! — there is no power 
To stay the mother from that rolling grave, 

Though fast on high the fiery volumes tower. 
And forth, like banners, from each lattice wave; 

Back, back she rushes through a host combined — 

Mighty is anguish, with affection twined! 

And what bold step may follow, 'midst the roar 
Of the red billows, o'er their prey that rise ? 

None ! — Courage there stood still — and never more 
Did those fair forms emerge on human eyes ! 

Was one brief meeting theirs, one wild farewell? 

And died they heart to heart?— Oh! who can tell? 

Fres'nly and cloudlessly the morning broke 
On that sad palace, 'midst its pleasure-shades; 

Its painted roofs had sunk— yet black with smoke 
And lonely stood its marble colonnades : 

But yester-eve their shafts with wreaths wer» 
bound ! — 

Now lay the scene one shrivell'd scroll around ! 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



181 



And bore the ruins no recording trace 
Of all that woman's heart had dared and done ? 

Yes ! there were gems to mark its mortal place, 
That forth from dust and ashes dimly shone! 

Those had the mother on her gentle breast, 

Worn round her child's fair image, there at rest. 

And they were all — the tender and the true 
Left this alone her sacrifice to prove, 

Hallowing the spot where mirth once lightly flew. 
To deep, lone, chasten'd thoughts of grief and 
love. 

Oh! we have need of patient faith below. 

To clear away the mysteries of such woe ! 



■ J U A N A. 



Juana, mother of Ihe Emperor Charles V., upon the 
death of her husband, Philip the Handsome of Austria, 
who had treated her with uniform neglect, had his body 
laid upon a bed of state in a magnificent dress, and being 
possessed with the idea that it would revive, watched it 
for a length of time incessantly, waiting for the moment 
of returning life. 

It is but dust thou look'st upon. This love, 
This wild and passionate idolatry, 
What doth it in the shadow of the gi-ave ? 
Gather it back within thy lonely heart ; 
So must it ever end : too much we give 
Unto the things that perish. 



The night-wind shook the tapestry round an an- 
cient palace-room. 

And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through the 
gorgeous gloom, 

And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fi:tful gleams 
and red, 

Where a woman with long raven hair sat watch- 
ing by the dead. 

Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorious 

still to see. 
Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his 

heart and step were free ; 
No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there 

m.ajestic lay, 
Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty's array. 

But she that with the dark hair watcli'd by the 
cold slumberer's side. 

On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her 
garb no pride ; 

Only her full impassion'd eyes as o'er that clay 
she bent, 

A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplen- 
dence blent. 

And as the swift thoughts cross'd her soul, like 

shadows of a cloud, 
Amidst the silent room of death, the dreamer 

spoke aloud ; 
She spoke to him who could not hear, and cried, 

" Thou yet wilt wake, 
And learn my watchings and my tears, beloved 

one ! for thy sake. 

" They told me this was death, but well I knew it 

could not be; 
Fairest and stateliest of the earth ! who spoke of 

death for thee ? 
They would have wrapt the funeral shroud thy 

gallant form around. 
But I forbade— and there thou art, a monarch, 

robed and crown'd ! 

"With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their 

coronal beneath, 
And thy brow so proudly beautiful — who said that 

this was death ? 



Silence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness round 

thee long. 
But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undimm'd 

and strong. 

" I know thou hast not loved me yet ; I am not 
fair like thee. 

The very glance of whose clear eye threw round a 
light of glee ! 

A frail and drooping form is mine— a cold un- 
smiling cheek. 

Oh ! I have but a woman's heart, wherewith thy 
heart to seek. 

" But when thou wak'st, my prince, my lord ! and 

hear'st how I have kept 
A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee pray'd and 

wept ; 
How in one long deep dream of thee my nights 

and days have past, 
Surely that humble, patient love must win back 

love at last I 

" And thou wilt smile — ray own, my own, shall be 

the sunny smile. 
Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all hut me 

erewhile ! 
No more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul 

shall pine — 
Oh ! years of hope deferr'd were paid by one fond 

glance of thine ! 

" Thou'lt meet me with that radiant look when 

thou comest from the chase. 
For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o'er 

thy face ! 
Thou'lt reck no more though beauty's gift mine 

aspect may not bless ; 
In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love, shall give 

me loveliness. 

" But wake ! my heart within me burns, yet once 

more to rejoice 
In the sound to which it ever leap'd, the music of 

thy voice : 
Awake ! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and 

tone. 
And the gladness of thine opening eyes, may all 

be mine alone." 

In the still chambers of the dust, thus pour'd forth 

day by day. 
The passion of that loving dream from a troubled 

soul found way. 
Until the shadows of the grave had swept o'er 

every grace. 
Left 'midst the awfulness of death on the princely 

form and face. 

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the 

watcher's breast. 
And they bore away the royal dead with requiems 

to his rest. 
With banners and with knightly plumes all waving 

in the wind — 
But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone 

despair behind. 



THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL. 



A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid. 
Woman !— a power to suffer and to love, 
Therefore thou so canst pity. 



Wildly and mournfully the Indian drum 

On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke ; — 
" Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come," — 

So the red warriors to their captive spoke. 
Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone, 

A youth, a fair-hair'd youth of England stood. 
Like a king's son ; tho' from his cheek had flown 

The mantling crimson of the island-blood. 
And his press'd lips look'd marble. — Fiercely bright, 
And high around him, blazed the fires of night, 



182 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro. 
As the wind pass'd, and with a fitful glow 
Lighting the victim's face : — But who could tell 
Of what within his secret heart befell, 
Known but to heaven that hour ?— rerchance a 

thought 
Of his far home then so intensely wrought, 
That its full image, pictured to his eye 
On the dark ground of mortal agony, 
Rose clear as day ! — and he might see the band, 
Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand, 
Where the laburnums droop'd ; or haply binding 
The jasmine, up the door's low pillars winding; 
Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth, 
Gathering, with braided hair, around the hearth 
Wliere sat their mother ; — and that mother's face 
Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place 
Where so it ever smiled !— Perchance the prayer 
Learn'd at her knee came back on his despair ; 
The blessing from her voice, the very tone 
Of her " Oood-night" might breathe from boyhood 

gone ! — 
He started and look'd up :— thick cypress boughs 

Full of strange sound, waved o'er him, darkly red 
In the broad stormy firelight ; — savage brows, 

With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'er- 
spread, 
Girt him like feverish phantoms; and pale stars 
Look'd thro' the branches as thro' dungeon bars, 
Shedding no hope. — He knew, he felt his doom — 
Oh ! what a tale to shadow with its gloom 
That happy hall in England !— Idle fear ! 
Would the winds tell it ? — Who might dream or 

hear 
The secret of the forests ? — To the stake 

They bound him; and that proud young soldier 
strove 
His father's spirit in his breast to wake, 

Trusting to die in silence ! He, the love . 
Of many hearts 1 — the fondly rear'd, — the fair, 
Gladdening all eyes to see ! — And fetter'd there 
He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand 
Flamed up to light it, in the chieftain's hand. 
He thought upon his God. — Hush ! hark ! — a cry 
Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity, — 
A step hath pierced the ring ! — Who dares intrude 
On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood ? — 
A girl — a young slight girl — a fawn-like child 
Of green Savannas and the leafy wild. 
Springing unmark'd till then, as some lone flower, 
Happy because the sunshine is its dower ; 
Yet one that knew how early tears are shed, — 
For hers had mourn'd a playmate brother dead. 

She had sat gazing on the victim long. 
Until the pity of her soul grew strong ; 
And, by its passion's deepening fervour sway'd, 
Ev'n to the stake she rush'd, and gently laid 
His bright head on her bosom, and around 
His form her slender arms to shield it wound 
Like close Liannes ; then raised her glittering eye 
And clear-toned voice that said, " He shall not 
die !" 

"He shall not die !" — the gloomy forest thrill 'd 
To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell 

On the fierce throng ; and heart and hand were 
still'd. 
Struck down, as by the whisper of a spell. 

They gazed,— their dark souls bow'd before the 
maid. 

She of the dancing step in wood and glade ! 

And, as her cheek flush'd through its olive hue, 

As her black tresses to the night-wind flew, 

Something o'ermaster'd tliem from that young 
mien — 

Something of heaven, in silence felt and seen ; 

And seeming, to their child-like faith, a token 

That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken. 

They loosed the bonds that held their captive's 

breath ; 
From his pale lips they took the cup of death ; 
They quench'd the brand beneath the cypress tree ; 
" Away," they cried, " young strangerj thou art 

free !" 



COSTANZA. 



— ■ Art thou then desolate? 

Of friecds, of hopes forsaken ? — Come to me ! 

I am thine own. — Have trusted hearts proved false ? 

Flatterers deceived thee ? Wanderer, come to me ! 

Why didst thou ever leave me? Know'st thou all 

I would have borne, and call'd it joy to bear, 

For thy sake ? Know'st thou that thy voice had power 

To shake me with a thrill of happiness 

By one kind tone ? — to till mine eyes with tears 

Of yearning love ? And thou — oh! thou didst throw 

That crush'd afiisction back upon my heart j — 

Yet come to me ! — it died not. 



She knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell 
Through the stain'd window of her lonely cell, 
And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow 
Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna-brow, 
While o'er her long hair's flowing jet it threw 
Bright waves of gold — the autumn forest's hue — 
Seem'd all a vision's mist of glory, spread 
By painting's touch around some holy head, 
Virgin's or fairest martyr's. In her eye. 
Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky, 
What solemn fervour lived I And yet what woe. 
Lay like some buried thing, still seen below 
The glassy tide ! Oh! he that could reveal 
What life had taught that chasten'd heart to feel. 
Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years. 
And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears ! 
But she had told her griefs to heaven alone, 
And of the gentle saint no more was known. 
Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and made 
A temple of the pine and chestnut shade, 
Filling its depths with soul, whene'er her hymn 
Rose through each murmur of the green, and dim. 
And ancient solitude ; where hidden streams 
Went moaning through the grass, hke soilnds in 

dreams, 
Music for vi'eary hearts! 'Midst leaves and flowers 
She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers. 
All nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread 
To the sick peasant on his lowly bed. 
Came, and brought hope ; while scarce of mortal 

birth 
He deein'd the pale fair form, that held on earth 
Communion but with grief. 

Ere long a cell, 
A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone 
Gleam'd thro' the dark trees o'er a sparkling well, 

And a sweet voice, of rich, yet mournful tone. 
Told the Calahrian wilds, that duly there 
Costanza lifted her sad heart in prayer. 
And now 't was prayer's own hour. That voice 

again 
Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, 
That made the cypress quiver where it stood 
In day's last crimson soaring from the wood 
Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set. 
Other and wilder sounds in tumult met 
The floating song. Strange sounds!— the trumpet's 

peal, 
Made hollow by the rocks ; the clash of steel, 
The rallying war-cry.— In the mountain-pass, 
There had been combat ; blood was on the grass, 
Banners had strewn the waters ; chiefs lay dying. 
And the pine-branches crash'd before the flying. 

And all was changed within the still retreat, 
Costanza's home :— there enter'd hurrying feet. 
Dark looks of shame and sorrow; mail-clad men, 
Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen, 
Scaring the ringdoves from the porch-roof, bore 
A wounded warrior in : the rocky floor 
Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword, 
As there they laid their leader, and implored 
The sweet saint's prayers to heal him ; then for 

flight. 
Through the wide forest and the mantling night. 
Sped breathlessly again.— They pass'd— but he 
The stateliest of a host— alas! to see 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



183 



What mother's eyes have watch'd in rosy sleep 
Till joy, for very fullness, tnrn'd to weep. 
Thus changed ! — a fearful thing ! His golden crest 
Was shiver'd, and the bright scarf on his breast — 
Some costly love-gift— rent .-—but what of these ? 
There were the clustering raven-locks — the breeze 
As it came in through lime and myrtle flowers, 
Slight scarcely lift them — steep'd in bloody showers 
So heavily upon the pallid clay 
Of the damp cheek they hung I the eye's dark ray — 
Where was it ? — and the lips !— they gasp'd apart, 
With their light curve, as from the chisel's art, 
Still proudly beautiful ! but that white hue- 
Was it not death's?— that stillness— that cold dew 
On the scarr'd forehead'! No! his spirit broke 
From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke 
To wander in wild dreams ; and there he lay, 
By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken. 
The haughty chief of thousands — the forsaken 
Of all save one ! — She fled not. Day by day — 
Such hours are woman's birthright— she, unknown. 
Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone ; 
Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving 
His brow with tears that mourn'd the strong man's 

raving. 
He felt them not, normark'd the light veii'd form 
Still hovering nigh ; yet sometimes, when that 
storm 

Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low 
As a young mother's by the cradle singing. 
Would soothe him with sweet aves, gently bringing 

Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow 
Ebb'd from his hollow cheek. 

At last, faint gleams 
Of memory dawn'd upon the cloud of dreams, 
And feebly lifting, as a child, his head. 
And gazing round him from his leafy bed. 
He muimur'd forth, " Where am I ? What soft 

strain 
Pass'd, like a breeze, across my burning brain ? 
Back from my youth it floated, with a tone 
Of life's first music, and a thought of one^ 
Where is she now ? and where the gauds of pride 
Whose hollow splendour lured me from her side ? 
All lost ! — and this is death ! — I cannot die 
Without forgiveness from that mournful eye ! 
Away! the earth hath lost her. Was she born 
To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn? 
My first, my holiest love ! — her broken heart 
Lies low, and I — unpai-don'd I depart." 

But then Costanza raised the shadowy veil 
From her dark locks and features brightly pale, 
And stood before him with a smile— oh! ne'er 
Did aught that smiled so much of sadness wear — 
And said, "Cesario! look on me ; I live 
To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive. 
I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust 
As should be Heaven's alone— and Heaven is just! 
I bless thee — be at peace !" 

But o'er his frame 
Too fast the strong tide rush'd — the sudden shame. 
The joy, th' amaze !— he bow'd his head— it fell 
On the vvrong'd bosom which had loved so well ; 
And love, still perfect, gave him refuge there,— 
His last faint breath just waved her floating hair. 



MADELINE. 

A DOMESTIC TALE. 



Who should it be ! — Where shouldst thou look for kindness 
When we are sick, where can we turn for succour, 
When we are wretched, where can we complain j 
And when the world looks cold and surly on us, 
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye 
With such sure confidence as to a mother ? 

Joaniia £aiUie. 



" My child, my child, thou leav'st me !— I shall hear 
The gentle voice no more that blest mine ear 



With its first utterance; I shall miss the sound 
Of thy light step amidst the fiowers around. 
And thy soft breathing hymn at twilight's close, 
And thy "Good-night" at parting for repose. 
Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone. 
And the low breeze will have a mournful tone 
Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee. 
My child ! and thou, along the moonlight sea, 
With a soft sadness haply in thy glance, 
Slial t watch thine own , thy pleasant land of France, 
Fading to air. — Yet blessings with thee go ! 
Love guard thee, gentlest ! and the exile's woe 
From thy young heart be far ! — And sorrow not 
For me, sweet daughter! in my lonely lot, 
God shall be with me. — Now farewell, farewell ! 
Thou that hast been what words may never tell 
Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days 
When thou wert pillow'd there, and wont to raise 
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye 
That still sought mine : — these moments are gone 

by, 
Thou too must go, my flower ! — Yet with thee dwell 
The peace of God! — One, one more gaze— farewell!" 

This was a mother's parting with her child, 
A young meek Bride on whom fair fortune smiled. 
And vs'oo'd her with a voice of love away 
From childhood's home ; yet there, with fond delay 
She linger'd on tlie threshold, heard the note 
Of her caged bird thro' trellis'd rose-leaves float. 
And fell upon her mother's neck, and wept. 
Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept, 
Gush'd o'er her soul, and many a vanish'd day 
As in one picture traced, before her lay. 

But the farewell was said ; and on the deep. 
When its breast heaved in sunset's golden sleep. 
With a calm'd heart, young Madeline ere long 
Pour'd forth her own sweet solemn vesper-song. 
Breathing of home : through stillness heard afar, 
And duly rising with the first pale star. 
That voice was on the waters ; till at last 
The sounding ocean-solitudes were pass'd. 
And the bright land was reach'd, the youthful world 
That glows along the West : the sails were furl'd 
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride 
Look'd on the home that promised hearts untried 
A bower of bliss to come. — Alas ! we trace 
The map of our own paths, and long ere years 
With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface. 
On sweeps the storm, and blotsthem out with tears. 
That home was darken'd soon : the summer breeze 
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas, 
Death unto one, and anguish how forlorn ! 
To her, that widow'd in her marriage-morn. 
Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him. 

Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide, 
Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim. 

As from the sun shut out on every side 
By the close veil of misery ! — Oh ! but ill. 

When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young 
high heart 

Bears its first blow !— it knows not yet the part 
Which life will teach— to suffer and be still. 
And with submissive love to count the flowers 
Which yet are spared, and thro' the future hours 
To send no busy dream \—She had not lenrn'd 
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn'd. 
In weariness, from life: then came th' unrest, 
The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast. 
The haunting sounds of voices far away. 
And household steps ; until at last she lay 
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams 
Of the gay vineyards and blue-rushing streams 
In her own sunny land, and murmuring oft 
Familiar names, in accents wild, yet soft. 
To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught 
Of the deep spells where wi th each word was fraught. 
To strangers?— Oh ! could strangers raise the head 
Gently as hers was raised ?— did strangers shed 
The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow 
And wasted cheek with half unconscious flow ? 
Something was there, that thro' the lingering night 
Outwatches patiently the taper's light. 
Something that faints not thro' the day's distress. 
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness ; 



184 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Love, true and perfect love !— Whence came that 

power, 
Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower? 
Whence? — who can ask?— the wild delirium pass'd, 
And from her eyes the spirit look'd at last 
Into her mother's face, and wakening knew 
The brow's cahn grace, the hair's dear silvery hue, 
The kind sweet smile of old ! — and had shf come, 
Thus in life's evening, from her distant home. 
To save her child ?— Ev'n so— nor yet in vain : 
In that young heart a light sprang up again, 
And lovely still, with so much love to give, 
Seem'd this fair world, though faded ; still to live 
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast 
That rock'd her childhood, sinking in soft rest, 
"Sweet mother, gentlest mother ! can it be ?" 
The lorn one cried, " and do I look on thee 7 
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore, 
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more." 



QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB. 



"This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburgh, near 
Berlin. It was not without surprise that I came sudden- 
ly, among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I might, 
and sbould have deemed it a mere adornment of the 
grounds, but the cypress and the willow declare it a ha- 
bitation of the dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white 
marble lay a sheet, and the outline of the human form 
was plainly visible beneath its folds. The person with 
me reverently turned it back, and displayed the statue of 
his Queen. It is a portrait-statue recumbent, said to be 
a perfect resemblance— not as in death, but when she 
lived to bless and be blessed. Nothing can be more calm 
and kind than the expression of her features. The hands 
are folded on the bosom ; the limbs are sufficiently cross- 
ed to show the repose of life— Here the King brings her 
children annually, to offer garlands at her grave. These 
hang in withered mournfulness above this living image 
of their departed mothor."—Sherer's J^Totes and Reflec- 
tions during a Ramble in Oermany. 



la sweet pride upon tbat insult keen 

She smiled ; then droopin? mute and broken-hearted 

To the cold comfort of the grave departed. 

Milynan. 



It stands where northern willows weep, 

A temple fair and lone ; 
Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep. 

From cypress-branches thrown ; 
While silently around it spread. 
Thou feel'st the presence of the dead. 

And what within is richly shrined? 

A sculptured woman's form, 
Lovely in perfect rest reclined, 

As one beyond the storm : 
Yet not of death, hut slumber, lies 
The solemn sweetness on those eyes. 

The folded hands, the calm pure face. 

The mantle's quiet flow. 
The gentle, yet majestic grace. 

Throned on the matron brow ; 
These, in that scene of tender gloom. 
With a still glory robe the tomb. 

There stands an eagle, at the feet 

Of the fair image wrought ; 
A kingly emblem — nor unmeet 

To wake yet deeper thought : 
She whose high heart finds rest below, 
W^s royal inher birth and woe. 



There are pale garlands hung ahove, 

Of dying scent and hue; — 
She was a mother— in her love 

How sorrowfully true ! 
Oh I hallow'd long he every leaf. 
The record of her children's grief! 

She saw their birthright's warrior crown 
Of olden glory spoil'd, ' 

The standard of their sires borne down, 
The shield's bright blazon soil'd : 

She met the tempest meekly brave. 

Then turn'd, o'erwearied, to the grave. 

She slumber'd ; but it came— it came, 

Her land's redeeming hour. 
With the glad shout, and signal-flame, 

Sent on from tower to tower! 
Fast through the realm a spirit moved — 
'Twas hers, the lofty and the loved. 

Then was her name a note that rung 
To rouse bold hearts from sleep. 

Her memory, as a banner flung 
Forth by the Baltic deep ; 

Her grief, a bitter vial pour'd 

To sanctify th' avenger's sword. 

And the crown'd eagle spread again 

His pinion to the sun ; 
And the strong land shook off its chain — 

So was the triumph won ! 
But woe for earth, where sorrow's tone 
Still blends with victory's— SAe was gone ! 



THE MEMORIAL PILLAR. 



On the road-side between Penrith and Appleby, stands 
a small pillar, with this inscription :—" This pillar was 
erected in the year 1656, by Ann, Countess Dowager of 
Pembroke, for a memorial of her last parting, in this 
place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret, 
Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d April, 
I616."-See Notes to the " Pleasures of Memory." 



Hast thou, through Eden's wild-wood vales pursued 
Each mountain-scene, magnificently rude, 
Nor with attention's lifted eye, revered 
That modest stone, by pious Pembroke rear'd, 
Which still records, beyond the pencil's power, 
The silent sorrows of a parting hour ? 

Rogers. 

Mother and child ! whose blending tears 

Have sanctified the place, 
Where, to the love of many years. 

Was given one last embrace ; 
Oh! ye have shrined a spell of power. 
Deep in your record of that hour ! 

A spell to waken solemn thought, 

A still, small undertone. 
That calls back days of childhood, fraught 

With many a treasure gone ; 
And smites, perchance, the hidden source, 
Though long untroubled — of remorse. 

For who, that gazes on the stone 
Which marks your parting spot. 

Who but a mother's love hath known 
The one love changing not ? 

Alas! and haply leafn'd its worth 

First with the sound of "Earth to earth?" 

But thou, high-hearted daughter ! thou. 
O'er whose bright, honour'd head. 

Blessings and tears of holiest flow, 
Ev'n here were fondly shed, 

Thou from the passion of thy grief. 

In its full burst, couldst draw relief. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



185 



For ohl though painful be th' excess, 
The might wherewith it swells, 

In nature's fount no bitterness 
Of nature's mingling, dwells; 

And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride 

Poison'd the free and healthful tide. 

But didst thou meet the face no more. 
Which thy young heart lirst knew? 

And all — was all in this world o'er, 
With ties thus close and true? 

It was ! — On earth no other eye 

Could give thee back thine infancy. 

No other voice could pierce the maze 
Where deep within thy breast. 

The sounds and dreams of other days, 
With memory lay at rest ; 

No other smile to thee could bring 

A gladd'ning, like the breath of spring. 

Yet, while thy place of weeping still 

Its lone memorial keeps. 
While on thy name, 'midst wood and hill, 

The quiet sunshine sleeps. 
And touches, in each graven line, 
Of reverential thought a sign; 

Can I, while yet these tokens wear 

The impress of the dead. 
Think of the love embodied there, 

As of a vision fled ? 
A perish'd thing, the joy and flower 
And glory of one earthly hour ? 

Not so 1 — I will not bow me so. 
To thoughts that breathe despair ! 

A loftier faith we need below, 
Life's farewell words to bear. 

Mother and child !— Your. tears are past — 

Surely your hearts have met at last ! 



THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.* 



*' Ne me plaignez pas— si vous saviez 
Combien de peines ce tombeau m'a epargnees !" 



I STOOD beside thy lowly grave ; — 
Spring-odours breathed around, 

And music, in the river-wave, 
Pass'd with a lulling sound. 

All happy things that love the sun 

In the bright air glanced by, 
And a glad murmur seem'd to run 

Through the soft azure sky. 

Fresh leaves were on the ivy-bough 

That fringed the ruins near ; 
Young voices were abroad — but thou 

Their sweetness couldst not hear. 

And mournful grew my heart for thee, 
Thou in whose woman's mind. 

The ray that brightens earth and sea. 
The iight of song was shrined. 

Mournful, that thou vvert slumbering low. 

With a dread curtain drawn 
Between thee and the golden glow 

Of this world's vernal dawn. 

Parted from all the song and bloom 
Thou wouldst have loved so well. 

To thee the sunshine round thy tomb 
Was but a broken spell. 



* Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery of 
Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been the last 
residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave is one of many in the 
church-yard of the village. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins 
of an ancient abbey that has been partially converted into a church, 
reverently throw their mantle of tender shadow over it. — Tales by 
the O'Hara Family. 



24 



The bird, the insect on the wing, 

In their bright reckless play, 
Might feel the flush and life of spring,— 

And thou wert pass'd away ! 

But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought 

O'er my vain sadness came ; 
Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought 

Within my thrilling frame. 

Surely on lovelier things, I said. 
Thou must have look'd ere now, 

Than all that round our pathway shed 
Odours and hues below. 

The shadows of the tomb are here. 

Yet beautiful is earth ! 
What seest thou then where no dim fear. 

No haunting dream, hath birth ? 

Here a vain love to passing flowers 
Thou gav'st— but where thou art. 

The sway is not with changeful hours. 
There love and death must part. 

Thou hast left sorrow in thy song, 

A voice not loud, but deep ! 
The glorious bowers of earth among. 

How often didst thou weep ! 

Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground 
Thy tender thoughts and high ?— 

Now peace the woman's heart hath found. 
And joy the poet's eye. 



NOTES. 



Note 1. 

When darkness from the vainly-doting sight, 

Covers its beautiful ! 
" Wheresoever you are, or in what state soever you be, it sufficeth 
me you are mine. Rachel wept, and would not be comforted, be- 
cause, her children were no more. And that, indeed, is the remediless 
sorrow, and none else '"—From a letter of Arabella Stuart's to her 
husband.— See Curiosities of Literature. 

Note 2. 

Death !—what, is death a locWd and treasured thing. 
Guarded by swords of fire ? 
" And if you remember of old, / dare di'e.- Consider what the 
world would conceive, if I should be violently enforced to do it." 
Fragments of her Letters. 

Note 3. 

And her lovely thoughts from their cells found way, 

In the suddenflow ofaplaintive fay. 
A Greek Bride, on leaving her father's house, takes leave of her 
friends and relatives frequently in eslemporaneous verse. — See 
Fauriel's Chants Populaires de la Grece Moderne. 

Note 4. 

And loved when they shoidd hate — like thee, Imelda. 

related in Sismondi's Histoire des Repub- 



The tale of Imelda 
liques Italieime; Vol. 



. p. 443. 



Note 5. 

Faiher of ancient waters, roll ! 

" Father of waters," the Indian name for the Mississippi 

Note 6. 
And to the Fairy-s fountain in the glade. 
A beautiful fountain ne^ar Domremi, believed to be haunted by 
fairies, and a favourite resort of Jeanne d'Arc in her childhood. 

Note 7. 

But loveliest far amidst the reveVs pride. 
Was she, the Lady from the Danube-side. 
The Princess Pauline Schwartzenberg. The story of her fate is 
beautifully related in L'AlIemagne. Vol. iii. p. 336. 



186 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Ihr Platze aller meiner stlllen FreudeD, 
Euch lass ich hinter mir auf immerdar 1 

lifL =» » ^ 

So ist des Geistes Ruf an mich ergaagen, 
Mich treibt nicht eitles, irdisches Verlangen. 

Die Jungfrau von Orleans. 

Long time against oppression have I fought, 
And for the native liberty of faith 
Have bled and sufler''d bonds. 

Remmsey a Tragedy. 



The following Poem is intended to describe the mental conflicts, as well as outward sufferings, 
of a Spaniard, who, flying from the religious persecutions of his own country in the sixteenth century, 
takes refuge with his child in a North American forest. The story is supposed to be related by him- 
self, amidst the wilderness which has afforded him an asylum. 



THE 

FOREST SANCTUARY. 



The voices of my home ! — I hear them still ! 
They have been with me through the dreamy 

night— 
The blessed household voices, wont to fill 
My heart's clear depths with unalloy'd delight ! 
I hear them still unchanged: — though some from 

earth 
Are music parted, and the tones of mirth — 
Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days 

more bright ! 
Have died in others, — yet to me they come. 
Singing of boyhood back — the voices of my home ! 

II. 

They call me through this hush of woods, re- 
posing 
In the gray stillness of the summer morn. 
They wander by when heavy flowers are closing. 
And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars 

are born ; 
E'en as a fount's remember'd gushings burst 
On the parch'd traveller in his hour of thirst. 
E'en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till 

worn 
By quenchless longings, to my soul I say — 
Oh ! for the dove's swift wings, that I might flee 
away, 

III. 

And And mine ark!— yet whither? — I must bear 
A yearning heart within me to the grave. 
I am of those o'er whom a breath of air — 
Just darkening in its course tlie lake's bright 

wave. 
And sighing through the feathery canes(I) — 

hath power 
To call up shadows, in the silent hour, 
From the dim past, as from a wizard's cave ! 
So must it be ! — These skies above me spread. 
Are they my own soft skies 7 — Ye rest not here, 

my dead! 

IV. 

Ye far amidst the southern flovi^ers lie sleeping, 
Your graves all smiling in the sunshine clear, 
Save one! — a blue, lone, distant main is sweeping 
High o'er one gentle head — ye rest not here ! — 



'Tis not the olive, with a whisper swaying, 
Not thy low ripplings, glassy water, playing 
Through my own chestnut groves, which fill 

mine ear; 
But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell, 
And for their birth-place moan, as moans the 
ocean-shell. (2) 

v. 

Peace! — I will dash these fond regrets to earth, 
Ev'n as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain 
From his strong pinion. Thou that gav^st me 

birth. 
And lineage, and once home, my native Spain ! 
My own bright land — my father's land — my 

child's! 
What hath thy son brought from thee to the 

wilds? 
He hath brought marks of torture and the chain, 
Traces of things which pass not as a breeze, 
A blighted name, dark thoughts, wrath, woe— thy 

gifts are these. 

VI. 

A blighted name ! — I hear the winds of morn— 
Their sounds are not of this!— I hear the shiver 
Of the green reeds, and all the rustlings, borne 
From the high forest, when the light leaves 

.; quiver: 
Their sounds are not of this !— the cedars.waving, 
Lend it no tone : His wide savannahs laving. 
It is not murmur'd by the joyous river! 
What part hath inortal name, where God alone 
Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart 
is known ? 

VII. 

Is it not much that I may worship Him, 
With naught my spirit's breathings to control. 
And feel His presence in the vast and dim. 
And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll 
From the far cataracts? — Shall I not rejoice 
That I have learn'd at last to know His voice 
From man's? — I will rejoice!— my soaring soul 
Now hath redoem'd her birth-right of the day. 
And won, through clouds, to Him, her own unfet-' 
ter'd way! 

VIII. 

And thou, my boy ! that silent at my knee 
Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes, 
Fill'd with the love of childhood, which I see 
Pure through its depths, a thing without disguise, 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



187 



Thou that hast breath'd in sKi ruber on my hreast, 
When I have check'd its throbs to give thee rest, 
Mine own ! whose young thoughts fresh before 

me rise! 
Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer. 
And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful air ? 

IX. 

Why should I weep on thy bright head, my boy ? 
Within thy father's halls thou wilt not dwell. 
Nor lift their banner, with a warrior's joy, 
Amidst the sons of mountain chiefs, who fell 
For Spain of old- — Yet what if rolling waves 
Have borne us far from our ancestral graves ! 
Thou shalt not feel thy bursting heart rebel. 
As mine hath done ; nor bear what I have borne. 
Casting in falsehood's mould th' indignant brow 
of scorn. 

X. 

This shall not be thy lot, my blessed child ! ^ 
I have not sorrow'd, struggled, lived in vain^ 
Hear me ! magnificent and ancient wild ; 
And mighty rivers, ye that meet the main, 
As deep meets deep; and forests, whose dim 

shade 
The flood's voice, and the wind's, by swells per- 
vade; 
Hear me ! — 'tis well to die and not complain. 
Yet there are hours when the charged heart must 
speak, 
Ev'n in the desert's ear to pour itself, or break ! 

XI. 

I see an oak before me, (3) it had been 

The crown'd one of the w^oods ; and might have 

flung 
Its hundred arms to Heaven, still freshly green, 
But a wild vine around the stem hath clung. 
From branch to branch close wreaths of bondage 

throwing. 
Till the proud tree, before no tempest bowing. 
Hath shrunk and died, those serpent folds among. 
Alas ! alas ! — what is it that I see ? 
An image of man's mind, land of my sires, with 

thee ! 

XII. 

Yet art thou lovely ! — Song is on thy hills — 
Oh sweet and mournful melodies of Spain, 
That lulPd my boyhood, how your memory 

thrills 
The exile's heart with sudden-wakening pain ! — 
Your sounds are on the rocks — that I might hear 
Once more the music of the mountaineer! — 
And from the sunny vales the shepherd's strain 
Floats out, and fills the solitary place 
With the old tuneful names of Spain's heroic race. 

XIII. 

But there was silence one bright, golden day. 
Through my own pine-hung mountains. Ciear, 

yet lone. 
In the rich autumn light the vineyards lay. 
And from the fields the peasant's voice was gone; 
And the red grapes untrodden strew'd the ground. 
And the free flocks untended roam'd around: 
Where was the pastor ? — where the pipe's wild 

tone^ 
Music and mirth were hush'd the hills among. 
While to the city's gates each hamlet pout'd its 

throng. 

XIV. 

Silence upon the mountains! — But within 

The city's gates a rush — a press — a swell 

Of multitudes their torrent way to win ; 

And heavy boomings of a dull deep bell, 

A dead pause following each — like that which 

parts 
The dash of billows, holding breathless hearts 
Fast in the hush of fear— knell after knell; 
And sounds of thickening steps, like thunder- 
rain. 
That plashes on the roof of some vast echoingfane! 



What pageant's hour approach'd ?— The sullen 

gate 
Of a strong ancient prison-house was thrown 
Back to the day. And who, in mournful state. 
Came forth, led slowly o'er its threshold stone ? 
They that had learn'd, in cells of secret gloom,' 
How sunshine is forgotten !— They, to whom 
The very features of mankind were grown 
Things that bewilder'd!— O'ertheirdazzled sight, 
They lifted their wan hands, and cower'd before 
the light ! 

XVI. 

To this man brings his brother !— Some were 

there. 
Who with their desolation had entwined 
Fierce strength, and girt the sternness of despair 
Fast round their bosoms, ev'n as warriors bind 
The breast-plate on for fight : but brow and cheek 
Seem'd theirs a torturing panoply to speak ! 
And there were some, from whom the very mind 
Had been wrung out • they smiled— oh ! startling 

smile, 
Whence man's high soul is fled!— where doUi it 

sleep the while ? 

XVII. 

But onward moved the melancholy train, 
For their false creeds in fiery pangs to die. 
This was the solemn sacrifice of Spain- 
Heaven's oflfering from the land of chivalry! 
Through thousands, thousands of their race they 

moved 
—Oh! how unlike all others!— the beloved. 
The free, the proud, the beautiful ! whose eye 
Grew fix'd before them, while a people's breath 
Was hush'd, and its one soul bound in the thought 

of death ! 

XVIII. 

It might be that amidst the countless throng. 
There swell'd some heart, with pity's weight op- 

press'd— 
For the wide stream of human love is strong ; 
And woman, on whose fond and faithful breast 
Childhood is rear'd, and at whose knee the sigh 
Of its first prayer is breathed, she, too, was nigh. 
But life is dear, and the free footstep bless'd. 
And home a sunny place, where each may fill 
Some eye with glistening smiles,— and therefore all 

were still — 

XIX. 

All still— youth, courage, strength !— a winter 

laid, 
A chain of palsy, cast on might and mind ! 
Still, as at noon a southern forest's shade. 
They stood, those breathless masses of mankind ; 
Still, as a frozen torrent ! — but the wave 
Soon leaps to foaming freedom — they, the brave, 
Endured — they saw the martyr's place assign'd 
In the red flames — whence is the withering spell 
That numbs each human pulse ?— they saw, and 

thought it well. 

XX. 

And I, too, thought it well ! That very morn 
From a far land I came, yet round me clung 
The spirit of my own. No hand had torn 
With a strong grasp away the veil which hung 
Between mine eyes and truth. I gazed, I saw. 
Dimly, as through a glass. In silent awe 
I watch'd the fearfufrites ; and if there sprung 
One rebel feeling from its deep founts up. 
Shuddering, I flung it back as guilt's own poison- 
cup. 

XXI. 

But I was waken'd as the dreamers waken. 
Whom the shrill trumpet and the shriek of dread 
Rouse up at midnight, when their walls are ta- 
ken. 
And they must battle till their blood is shed 



188 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



On their own threshold floor. A path for light 
Through my torn breast was shatter'd by the 

might 
Of tlie swift thunder-stroke— and Freedom's tread 
Came in through ruins, late, yet not in vain. 
Making the bliglited place all green with life again. 

XXII. 

Still darkly, slowly, as a sullen mass 
Of cloud o'ersweeping, without wind, the sky, 
Dream-like I saw the sad procession pass. 
And niark'd its victims with a tearless eye. 
They moved before me but as pictures, wrought 
Each to reveal some secret of man's thought, 
On the sharp edge of sad mortality. 
Till in his place came one— oh ! could it be ? 
—My friend, my heart's first friend 1 — and did I 
gaze on thee ? 

XXIII. 

On thee ! with whom in boyhood I had play'd. 
At the grape-gatherings, by my native streams ; 
And to whose eye my youthful soul had laid 
Bare, as to Heaven's, its glowing world ofdreams; 
And by whose side 'midst warriors I had stood, 
And in whose helm was brought — oh! earn'd 

with blood 1 — 
The fresh wave to my lips, when tropic beams 
Smote on my fever'd brow! — Ay, years had pass'd. 
Severing our paths, brave friend ! and thus we met 

at last I 

XXIV. 
I see it still— the lofty mien thou bnrest — 
On thy pale forehead sat a sense of power ! 
The very look that once thou brightly worest 
Cheering me onward through a fearful hour. 
When we were girt by Indian bow and spear, 
'Midst the white Andes — ev'n as mountain deer 
Hemm'd in our camp — but through the javelin 

shower 
We rent our way, a tempest of despair ! 
— And thou — hadst thou but died with thy true 
brethren there ! 

XXV. 
I call the fond wish back— for thou hast perish'd 
More nobly far, my Al'var! — making known 
The might of truth ; (4) and be thy memory cher- 

ish'd 
With theirs, the thousands, that around her 

throne 
Have pour'd their lives out smiling, in that 

doom 
Finding a triumph, if denied a tomb ! 
— Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown, 
And with the wind their spirit shall be spread. 
Filling man's heart and home with records of the 
dead. 

XXVI. 

Thou Searcher of the Soul ! in whose dread sight 
Not the bold guilt alone, that mocks the skies. 
But the scarce own'd, unwhisper'd thought of 

night. 
As a thing written with the sunbeam lies ; 
Thou know'st— whose eye through shade and 

depth can see. 
That this man's crime was but to worship thee. 
Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice, 
The call'd of yore ; wont by the Saviour's side, 
On the dim Olive-Mount to pray at eventide. 

XXVII. 

For the strong spirit will at times awake. 
Piercing the mists that wrap her clay-abode ; 
And, born of thee, she may not always take 
Earth's accents for the oracles of God ; 
And ev'n for this — O dust, whose mask is power ! 
Keed, that wouldst be a scourge thy little hour! 
Spark, whereon yet the mighty hath not trod, 
And therefore thou destroyest! — where were 
flown 
Our hope, if man were left to man's decree alone? 



XXVIII. 

But this I felt not yet. I could but gaze 

On him, my friend ; while that swift moment 

threw 
A sudden freshness back on vanish'd days, 
Like water-drops on some dim picture's hue ; 
Calling the proud time up, when first I stood 
Where banners floated, a ud my hea rt's quick blood 
Sprang to a torrent as the clarion blew, 
And he — his sword was like a brother's worn, 

That watches through the field his mother's young- 
est born. 

XXIX. 
But a lance met me in that day's career, 
Senseless I lay amidst th' o'ersweeping fight, 
Wakening at last — how full, how strangely clear, 
That scene on memory flash'd ! — the shivery light. 
Moonlight, on broken shields — the plain of 

slaughter, , 

The fountain side — the low sweet sound of water, 
And Alvar bending o'er me— from the night 
Covering me with his mantle ! — all the past 

Flow'd back — my soul's far chords all answer'd to 
the blast. 

XXX. 
Till, in that rush of visions, I became 
As one that, by the bands of slumber wound. 
Lies with a powerless, but all-thrilling frame, 
Intense in consciousness of sight and sound. 
Yet buried in a wildering dream which brings 
Loved faces round him, girt with fearful things ! 
Troubled ev'n thus I stood, but chain'd and bound 
On that familiar form mine eye to keep — 

— Alas ! I might not fall upon his neck and weep ! 

XXXL 
He pass'd me— and what next? — I look'd on two, 
Following his footsteps to the same dread place. 
For the same guilt — his sisters I (5) — Well I knew 
The beauty on those brows, though each young 

face 
Was changed — so deeply changed ! — a dungeon's 

air 
Is hard for loved and lovely things to bear. 
And ye, O daughters of a lofty race, 
Glueen-like Theresa ! radiant Inez! — flowers 
So cherish'd ! were ye then but rear'd for those 

dark hours ? 

XXXII. 

A mournful home, young sisters ! had ye left. 
With your lutes hanging hush'd upon the wall. 
And silence round the aged man, bereft 
Of each glad voice, once answering to his call. 
Alas, that lonely father! doom'd to pine 
For sounds departed in his life's decline. 
And, 'midst the shadowing banners of his hall. 
With his white hair to sit, and deem the name 
A hundred chiefs had borne, cast down by you to 

shame ! (0) 

XXXIIL 
And woe for you, 'rnidst looks and words of love, 
And gentle hearts and faces, nursed so long ! 
How had I seen you in your beauty move. 
Wearing the wreath, and listening to the song! 
—Yet sat, ev'n then, what seem'd the crowd to 

shun. 
Half veil'd upon the clear pale brow of one. 
And deeper thoughts than oft to youth belong. 
Thoughts, such as wake to evening's whispery 

sway. 
Within the drooping shade of her sweet eyelids lay. 

XXXIV. 
And if she mingled with the festive train, 
It was but as a melancholy star 
Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain, 
In its bright stillness present, though afar. 
Yet would she smile — and that, too, hath its 

smile — 
Circled with joy which reach'd her not the while. 
And bearing a lone spirit, not at war 
With earthly things, but o'er their form and hue 
Shedding too clear a light, too sorrowfully true. 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



189 



XXXV. 

But the dark hours wring forth the hidden might 
Which liath lain bedded in the silent soul, 
A treasure all undreamt of; — as the night 
Calls out the harmonies of streams that roll 
Unheard by day. It seem'd as if her breast 
Had hoarded energies, till then suppress'd 
Almost with pain, and bursting from control. 
And tinding iirst that hour their pathway free : 
Could a rose brave the storm, such might her em- 
blem be. 

XXXVI. 

For the soft gloom whose shadow still had hung 
On her fair brow, beneath its garlands worn. 
Was fled ; and fire, like prophecy's, had sprung, 
Clear to her kindled eye. It might be scorn- 
Pride — sense of wrong — ay, the frail heart is 

bound 
By these at times, ev'n as with adamant around. 
Kept so from breaking ! — yet not tlms upborne 
She moved, though some sustaining passion's 
wave 
Lifted her fervent soul — a sister for the brave ! 

XXXVII. 

And yet, alas ! to see the strength which clings 
Round woman in such hours! — a mournful s'ight. 
Though lovely!— an o'erflowing of the springs, 
The full springs of affection, deep as bright ! 
And she, because her life is ever twined 
With other lives, and by no stormy wind 
May thence be shaken, and because the light 
Of tenderness is round her, and her eye 
Doth weep such passionate tears — therefore she 
thus can die. 

XXXVIII. 
Therefore didst thou, through that heart-shaking 

scene, 
As through a triumph, move ; and cast aside 
Thine own sweet thoughtfulness for victory's 

mien, 
O faithful sister! cheering thus the guide. 
And friend, and brother of thy sainted youth. 
Whose hand had led thee to the source of truth. 
Where thy glad soul from earth was purified; 
Nor wouldst thou, following him through all the 

past. 
That he should see thy step grow tremulous at last. 

XXXIX. 

For thou hast made no deeper love a guest 
'Midst thy young spirit's dreams, than that 

which grows 
Between the nurtured of the same fond breast, 
The shelter'd of one roof; and thus it rose 
Twined in with life. — How is it, that the hours 
Of the same sport, the gathering early flowers 
Round the same tree, the sharing one repose, 
And mingling one first prayer in murmurs soft. 
From the heart's memory fade, in this world's 

breath, so oft ? 

XL. 

But thee that breath had touch'd not; thee, nor 

him. 
The true in all things found !— and tliou wert 

blest 
Ev'n then, that no remember'd change could dim 
The perfect image of afl'ection, press'd 
Like armour to thy bosom !— thou hadst kept 
Watch by that brother's couch of pain, and 

wept. 
Thy sweet face covering with thy robe, when rest 
Fled from the sufferer ; thou hadst bound his faith 
Upon thy soul — one light, one hope ye chose — one 

death. 

XLL 
So didst thou pass on brightly !— but for her, 
Ne.\t in that path, how may her doom be spoken ? 
— All-merciful ! to think that such things were. 
And arc, and seen by men with hearts unbroken ! 



To think of that fair girl, whose path had been 
So strew'd withjose-leaves, all one fairy scene! 
And whose qui«t glance came ever as a token 
Of hope to drooping thought, a)id her glad voice 
As a free bird's in spring, that makes the woods 
rejoice ! 

XLII. 

And she to die !— she loved the laughing earth 
With such deep joy in its fresh leaves and 

flowers ! 
— Was not her smile ev'n as the sudden birth 
Of a young rainbow, colouring vernal showers? 
Yes ! but to meet her fawn-like step, to hear 
The gushes of wild song, so silvery clear. 
Which, oft unconsciously, in happier hours 
Flow'd from her lips, was to forget the sway 
Of Time and Death below,— blight, shadow, dull 
decay. 

xLin. 

Could this change be? — the hour, the scene, 

where last 
I saw that form, came floating o'er my mind : 
— A golden vintage-eve ; — the heats were pass'd, 
And, in the freshness of the fanning wind. 
Her father sat, where gleam'd the first faint star 
Through the lime-boughs ; and with her light 

guitar. 
She, on the greensward at his feet reclined. 
In his calm face laugh'd up; some shepherd-lay 
Singing, as childhood sings on the lone hills at play. 

XLIV. 

And now— oh God !— the bitter fear of death, 
The sore amaze, the faint o'ershadowing dread. 
Had grasp'd her!— panting in her quick-drawn 

breath, 
And in her white lips quivering; — onward led, 
She look'd up with her dim bewilder'd eyes. 
And there smiled out her own soft brilliant skies, 
Far in their sultry southern azure spread, 
Glowing with joy, but silent !— still they smiled. 
Yet sent down no reprieve for earth's poor trem- 
bling child. 

XLV. 

Alas ! — that earth had all too strong a hold. 
Too fast, sweet Inez ! on thy heart, whose bloom 
Was given to early love, nor know how cold 
The hours which follow. There was one, with 

whom. 
Young as thou wert, and gentle, and untried. 
Thou might'st, perchance, unshrinkingly have 

died ; 
But he was far away ; — and with thy doom 
Thus gathering, life grew so intensely dear, 
That all thy slight frame shook with its cold mor- 
tal fear ! 

XLVI. 

No aid!— thou too didst pass!— and all had pass'd, 
The fearful — and the desperate — and the strong! 
Some like the bark that rushes with the blast, 
Some like the leaf swept shiveringly along, 
And some as men that have but one more field 
To fight, and then may slumber on their shield. 
Therefore they arm in hope. But now the throng 
Roll'd on, and bore me with their living tide, 
Ev'n as a bark wherein is left no power to guide. 

XLVII. 

Wave swept on wave. We reach'd a stately 

square, 
Deck'd for the rites. An altar stood on high. 
And gorgeous, in the midst, a place for prayer. 
And praise, and offering. Could the earth supply 
No fruits, no flowers for sacrifice, of all 
Which on her sunny lap unheeded fall ? 
No fair young firstling of the flock to die. 
As when before their God the Patriarchs stood? 
— Look down ! man brings thee, Heaven ! his bro- 
ther's guiltless blood ! 



190 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



XLVIII. 

Hear its voice, hear !— a cry goes up to thee, 
From tiie stain'd sod ;— make thou lliy judgment 

known 
On him, tlie shedder !— let his portion be 
The fear that walks at midnight— give the moan 
In the wind haunting him a power to say, 
" Where is thy brother ?"— and the stars a ray 
To search and shake his spirit, when alone. 
With the dread splendour of their burning eyes! 
—So shall earth own thy will— mercy, not sacrifice 1 

XLIX. 
Sounds of triumphant praise!— the mass was 

sung — 
—Voices that die not might have pour'd such 

strains! 
Through Salem's towers might that proud chant 

have rung. 
When the Most High, on Syria's palmy plains, 
Had queli'd her foes !— so full it swept, a sea 
Of loud waves jubilant, and rolling free ! 
Oft, when the wind, as through resounding fanes, 
Hath fiU'd the choral forests with its power, 
Some deep tone brings me back the music of that 

hour. 

L. 

It died away ;— the incense-cloud was driven 
Before the breeze— the words of doom were said; 
And the sun faded mournfully from heaven, 
—He faded mournfully! and dimly red. 
Parting in clouds from those that look'd their 

last, 
And sigh'd— " Farewell, thou sun !"— Eve glow'd 

and pass'd — 
Night— midnight and the moon— came forth and 

shed 
Sleep, even as dew, on glen, wood, peopled spot- 
Save one— a place of death— and there men slum- 

ber'd not. 

LI. 

'Twas not within the city (7)— but in sight 
Of the snow-crown'd sierras, freely sweeping, 
With many an eagle's eyrie on the height, 
And hunter's cabin, by the torrent peeping 
Far off: and vales between, and vineyards lay, 
With sound and gleam of waters on their way. 
And chestnut-woods, that girt the happy sleeping. 
In many a peasant's home!— The midnight sky 
Brought softly that rich world round those who 
came to die. 

LH. 

The darklv-glorious midnight sky of Spain, 
Burning with stars!— What had the torches' 

glare 
To do beneath that temple, and profane 
Its holy radiance ?— By their wavering iiare, 
I saw beside the pyres— I see thee now, 
O bright Theresa ! with thy lifted brow. 
And thy clasp'd hands, and dark eyes fiU'd with 

prayer ! 
And thee, sad Inez! bowing thy fair head, 
Andmantlingup thy face, all colourless with dread! 

LTII. 

And Alvar, Alvar!— I beheld thee too. 
Pale, steadfast, kingly, till thy clear glance fell 
On that young sister ; then perturb'd it grew, 
And all thy labouring bosom seem'd to swell 
Wnth painful tenderness. Why came I there. 
That troubled image of my friend to bear 
Thence, for my after-years ?— a thing to dwell 
In my heart's core, and on the darkness rise. 
Disquieting my dreams with its bright mournful 
eyes! 

LIV. 

Why came I ? oh ! the heart's deep mystery !— 

Why 
In man's last hour doth vain affection's gaze 
Fix itself down on struggling agony. 
To the dimm'd eye-balls freezing, as they glaze? 



It might be — yet the povi'er to will seem'd o'er — 
That my soul yearn'd to hear his voice once 

more! 
But mine was fetter'd— mute in strong amaze, 
I watch'd his features as the night-wind blew, 
And torch-light or the moon's pass'd o'er their 
marble hue. 

LV. 

The trampling of a steed ! — a tall white steed, 
Rending his fiery way the crowds among — 
A storm's way through a forest— came at speed. 
And a wild voice cried " Inez !" Swift she flung 
The mantle from her face, and gazed around, 
With a faint shriek at that familiar sound. 
And from his seat a breathless rider sprung, 
And dash'd off fiercely those who came to part, 
And rush'd to that pale girl, and clasp'd her to his 
heart. 

LVI. 

And for a moment all around gave way 
To that full burst of passion! — on his breast, 
Like a bird panting yet from fear she lay, 
But blest — in misery's very lap — yet blest! — 
Oh love, love, strong as death ! — from such an 

hour 
Pressing out joy by thine immortal power, 
Holy and fervent love ! had earth but rest 
For thee and thine, this vv'orld were all too fair ! 
How could we thence be wean'd to die without 

despair ? 

LVII. 

But she— as falls a willow from the storm. 
O'er its own river streaming— thus reclined 
On the youth's bosom hung her fragile form, 
And clasping arms, so passionately twined 
Around his neck— with such a trusting fold, 
A full deep sense of safety in their hold. 
As if naught earthly might th' embrace unbind! 
Alas! a child's fond faith, believing still 
Its mother's breast beyond the lightning's reach 
to kill ! 

LVIII. 

Brief rest! upon the turning billow's height, 
A strange sweet moment of some heavenly 

strain, 
Floating between the savage gusts of night. 
That sweep the seas to foam ! Soon dark again 
The hour— the scene— th' intensely present, 

rush'd 
Back on her spirit, and her large tears gush'd 
Like blood-drops from a victim ; with swift rain 
Bathing the bosom where she lean'd that hour. 
As if her life would melt into th' o'erswelling 

shower. 

LIX. 

But he, whose arm sustain'd her!— oh ! I knew 
'Twas vain, and yet he hoped !— he fondly strove 
Back from her faith her sinking soul to woo, 
As life might yet be hers !— A dream of love 
Which could not look upon so fair a thing. 
Remembering how like hope, like Joy, like 

spring. 
Her smile was wont to glance, her step to move, 
And deem that men indeed, in very truth. 
Could mean the sting of death for her soft flowei- 

ing youth. 

LX. 

He woo'd her back to life.—" Sweet Inez, live ! 

My blessed Inez !— visions have beguiled 

Thy heart— abjure them!— thou wert form'd to 

give. 
And to find, joy; and hath not sunshine smiled 
Around thee ever? Leave me not, mine own ! 
Or earth will grow too dark !— for thee alone. 
Thee have I loved, thou gentlest ! from a child. 
And borne thy image with me o'er the sea. 
Thy soft voice in my soul !— Speak ! Oh ! yet live 
for me !" 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



191 



LXI. 

She look'd up wildly ; there were anxious eyes 
Waiting that look — sad eyes of troubled thought, 
Alvar's — Theresa's !— Did her childhood rise, 
With all its pure and home aftections fraught, 
lu the brief glance? — She clasp'd her hands — the 

strife 
Of love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of life. 
Within her woman's breast so deeply wrought, 
It seem'd as if a reed so slight and weak 
Jilunt in the rending storm not quiver only — break I 

Lxir. 

And thus it was— the young cheek flush'd and 

faded, 
As the swift blood in currents came and went. 
And hues of death the marble brow o'ershaded. 
And the sunk eye a watery lustre sent 
Through its white fluttering lids. Then trem- 
blings pass'd 
O'er the frail form, that shook it, as the blast 
Shakes the sere leaf, until the spirit rent 
Its way to peace— the fearful way unknown — 
Pale in love's arms she lay— s/je/ — what had loved 
was gone ! 

LXIII. 

Joy for thee, trembler !— thou redeem'd one, joy ! 
Young dove set free ! earth, ashes, soulless clay, 
Kemain'd for baffled vengeance to destroy ; 
— Thy chain was riven! — nor hadst thou cast 

away 
Thy hope in thy last hour ! — though love was 

there 
Striving to wring thy troubled soul from prayer, 
And life seem'd robed in beautiful array, 
Too fair to leave ! — but this might be forgiven. 
Thou wert so richly crown'd with precious gifts of 

Heaven. 

LXIV. 

But woe for him who felt the heart grow still, 
Which, with its weight of agony, had Iain 
Breaking on his! — Scarce could the mortal chill 
Of the hush'd bosom, ne'er to heave again, 
And all the silence curdling round the eye. 
Bring home the stern belief that she could die, 
That she indeed could die ! — for wild and vain 
As hope might be — his soul had hoped — 'twas 

o'er — 
Slowly his falling arms dropp'd from the form they 

bore : 

LXV. 

They forced him from that spot. — It might be well. 
That the fierce, recklesswords by anguish wrung 
From his torn breast, all aimless as they fell. 
Like spray-drops from the strife of torrents 

flung. 
Were mark'd as guilt. — There are, who note 

these things 
Against the smitten heart ; its breaking strings 
— On whose low thrills once gentle music hung — 
With a rude hand of touch unholy trying. 
And numbering them as crimes, the deep, strange 

tones replying. 

LXVI. 

But ye in solemn joy, O faithful pair ! 
Stood gazing on your parted sister's dust ; 
I saw your features by the torch's glare, 
And they were brightening with a heavenward 

trust ! 
I saw the doubt, the anguish, the dismay. 
Melt from my Alvar's glorious mien away : 
And peace was there— the calmness of the just ! 
And, bending down the slumberer's brow to kiss, 
"Thy rest is won," he said;— "sweet sister! praise 
for this !" 

LXVII. 

I started as from sleep;— yes, he had spoken— 
A breeze had troubled memory's hidden source! 
At once the torpor of my soul was broken- 
Thought, feeling, passion, woke in tenfold force. 



—There are soft breathings in the southern wind, 
That so your ice-chains, O ye streams! unbind. 
And free the foaming swiftness of your course! 
—I burst from those that held me back, and fell 
E'en on his neck, and cried— " Friend, brotlier! 
fare thee well !" 

LXVIII. 

Did he not say " Farewell ?"— Alas ! no breath 
Came to mine ear. Hoarse murmurs from the 

throng 
Told that the mysteries in the face of death 
Had from their eager sight been veil'd too long. 
And we were parted as the surge might part 
Those that would die together, true of heart. 
— His hour was come — but in mine anguish 

strong. 
Like a fierce swimmer through the midnight sea. 
Blindly I rush'd away from that which was to be. 

LXIX. 

Away— away I rush'd !— but swift and high 
The arrowy pillars of the firelight grew. 
Till the transparent darkness of the sky 
Flush'd to a blood-red mantle in their hue ; 
And, phantom-like, the kindling city seem'd 
To spread, float, wave, as on the wind they 

stream'd, 
With their wild splendour chasing me ! — I knew 
The death-work was begun — I veil'd mine eyes. 
Yet stopp'd in spell-bound fear to catch the victims' 
cries. 

LXX. 

What heard I then ?— a ringing shriek of pain, 
Such as for ever haunts the tortured ear? 
I heard a sweet and solemn-breathing strain 
Piercing the flames, untremulous and clear ! 
— The rich, triumphal tones!— I knew them well. 
As they came floating with a breezy swell! 
Man's voice was there — a clarion voice to cheer 
In the mid-battle— ay, to turn the flying — 
Woman's — that might have sung of Heaven beside 
the dying ! 

LXXI. 

It was a fearful, yet a glorious thing. 
To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and know 
That its glad stream of melody could spring 
Up from th' unsounded gulfs of human woe! 
Alvar! Theresa!— what is deep? v^hat strong? 
God's breath within the soul !— It fill'd that song 
From your victorious voices ! — but the glow 
On the hot air and lurid skies increased— 
Faint grew the sounds — more faint — I listen'd — 
they had ceased! 

LXXII. 

And thou indeed hadst perish'd, my soul's friend ! 
I might form other ties — but thou alone 
Couldst with a glance the veil of dimness rend. 
By other years o'er boyhood's memory thrown ! 
Others might aid me onward: — Thou and I 
Had mingled the fresh thoughts that early die. 
Once flowering — never more ! — And thou wert 

gone ! 
Who could give back my youth, my spirit free. 
Or be in auglit again what thou hadst been to me? 

LXXIII. 

And yet I wept thee not, thou true and brave ! 
I could not weep ! — there gather'd round thy 

name 
Too deep a passion ! — thou denied a grave ! 
TTiou, with the blight flung on thy soldier's fame !' 
Had I not known thy heart from childhood's 

time? 
Tliy heart of hearts ?— and couldst thou die for 

crime ? 
— No ! had all earth decreed that death of shame, 
I would have set, against all earth's decree, 
Th' unalienable trust of my firm soul in thee ! 



192 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



LXXIV. 

There are swift bours in life— strong, rushing 

hours, 
That do the work of tempests in their might ! 
They shake down things that stood as rocks and 

towers. 
Unto tlV undoubting mind;— they pour in light 
Where it but startles — like a burst of day 
For which th' uprooting of an oak makes way ; — 
Theysweepthecolouringmistsfrora otFour sight, 
They touch with fire thought's graven page, the 

roll 
Stamp'd with past years— and lo ! it shrivels as a 

scroll. 

LXXV. 

And this was of such hours ! — the sudden flow 
Of my soul's tide seem'd whelming me; the glare 
Of the red flames, yet rocking to and fro, 
Scorch'd up my heart vi^ith breathless thirst for 

air. 
And solitude, and freedom. It had been 
Well with me then, in some vast desert scene, 
To pour my voice out, for the winds to bear 
On with them, wildly questioning the sky. 
Fiercely th' untroubled stars, of man's dim destiny. 

LXXVI. 

I would have call'd, adjuring the dark cloud ; 
To the most ancient Heavens I would have said 
— " Speak to me ! show me truth!" (8)— through 

night aloud 
I would have cried to him, the newly dead, 
" Come back ! and show me truth !" — My spirit 

seem'd 
Gasping for some free burst, its darkness teem'd 
Wi th such pent storms of thought ! — again I fled — 
I fled, a refuge from man's face to gain, 
Scarce conscious when I paused, entering a lonely 

fane. 

LXXVII. 
A mighty minster, dim, and proud, and vast! 
Silence was round the sleepers, whom its floor 
Shut in the grave ; a shadow of the past, 
A memory of the sainted steps that wore 
Erewhile its gorgeous pavement, seem'd to brood 
Like mist upon the stately solitude, 
A halo of sad fame to mantle o'er 
Its white sepulchral forms of mail-clad men. 
And all was hush'd as night in some deep Alpine 

glen. 

LXXVIII. 
More hush'd, far more! — for there the wind 

sweeps by. 
Or the woods tremble to the streams' loud play! 
Here a strange echo made my very sigh 
Seem for the place too much a sound of day! 
Too much ray footsteps broke the moonlight, 

fading, 
Yet arch thro' arch in one soft flow pervading ; 
And I stood still :— prayer, chant, had died away. 
Yet past me floated a ifunereal breath 
Of incense.— I stood still— as before God and death ! 

LXXIX. 

For thick ye girt me round, ye long-departed! (9) 
Dust — imaged form — with cross, and shield, and 

crest ; 
It seem'd as if your ashes would have started. 
Had a wild voice burst forth above your rest ! 
Yet ne'er, perchance, did worshipper of yore 
Bear to your thriliing presence what / bore 
Of wrath — doubt— anguish — battling in the 

breast I 
I could have pour'd out words, on that pale air, 
To make your proud tombs ring : — no, no ! I could 

not there ! 

LXXX. 

Not 'midst those aisles, through which a thou- 
sand years 
Mutely as clouds and reverently had swept ; 
Not by those shrines, which yet the trace of tears 
And kneeling votaries on their marble kept ! 



Ye were too mighty in your pomp of gloom 
And trophied age, O temple, altar, tomb ! 
And you, ye dead ! — for in that faith ye slept, 
Whose weight had grown a mountain's on my 
heart, 
Which could not there be loosed.' — I turn'd me to 
depart. 

LXXXI. 

I turn'd — what glinmier'd faintly on my sight. 
Faintly, yet brightening, as a wreath of snow 
Seen thro' dissolving haze! — The moon, the night, 
Had waned, and dawn pour'd in; gray, shadowy, 

slow. 
Yet dayspring still ! — a solemn hue it caught, 
Piercing the stoned windows, darkly fraught 
With stoles and draperies of imperial glow ; 
And soft and sad, that colouring gleam was 

thrown. 
Where, pale, a pictured form above the altar shone. 

LXXXII. 

Thy form, thou Son of God ! — a wrathful deep. 
With foam, and cloud, and tempest round thee 

spread. 
And such a weight of night! — a night, when sleep 
From the fierce rocking of the billovi's fled. 
A bark show'd dim beyond thee, with its mast 
Bow'd, and its rent sail shivering to the blast ; 
But like a spirit in thy gliding tread. 
Thou, as o'er glass, didst walk that stormy sea 
Through rushing winds, which left a silent path for 

thee 1 

Lxxxin. 

So still thy white robes fell ! — no breath of air 
Withintheir long and slumberous folds had svv'ay I 
So still the waves of parted, shadowy hair 
From thy clear bi'ow flow'd droopingly away! 
Dark were the heavens above thee. Saviour ! — 

dark 
The gulfs. Deliverer ! round the straining bark ! 
But thou ! — o'er all thine aspect and array 
Was pour'd one stream of pale, broad, silvery 

light— 
Thou wert the single star of that all-shrouding 

night ! 

LXXXIV. 

Aid for one sinking! — Thy lone brightness 

gleam'd 
On his wild face, just lifted o'er the wave, 
With its worn, fearful, human look, that seem'd 
To cry thro' surge and blast — " I perish— save !" 
Not to the winds— not vainly! — thou wert nigh, 
Thy hand was stretch'd to fainting agony. 
Even in the portals of th' unquiet grave! 
O thou that art the life ! and yet didst bear 
Too much of mortal woe to turn from mortal prayer! 

LXXXV. 

But was it not a thing to rise on death. 
With its remember'd light, that face of thine. 
Redeemer! dirnm'd by this world's misty breath, 
Yet mournfully, mysteriously divine ? 
— Oh ! that calm, sorrowful, prophetic eye, 
With its dark depths of grief, love, majesty ! 
And the pale glory of the brow! — a shrine 
Where power sat veil'd, yet shedding softly round 
What told that tltou couldst be but for a time un- 
crown'd ! 

LXXXVI. 

And more than all, the Heaven of that sad smile ! 
The lip of mercy, our immortal trust ! 
Did not that look, that very look, erewhile. 
Pour its o'ershadow'd beauty on the dust ? 
Wert thou not such when earth's dark cloud 

hung o'er thee ! 
Surely thou wert !— my heart grew hush'd before 

thee. 
Sinking with all its passions, as the gust 
Sank at thy voice, along its billowy way: 
— Wliat had I there to do, but kneel, and weep, 

and pray ? 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



193 



Lxxxvn. 

Amidst the stillness rose my spirit's cry, 
Amidst the dead—" But that full cup of woe, 
Press'd from the fruitage of mortality, 
Saviour!— for thee— give light! that 1 may know 
If by thy will, in thine all-healing name, 
Men cast down human hearts to blighting shame 
And early death — and say, if this be so, 
Where then is mercy ?— whither shall we flee. 
So unallied to hope, save by our hold on thee? 

LXXXVIII. 

" But didst thou not, the deep sea brightly tread- 
ing. 
Lift from despair that straggler with the wave ? 
Andwevtthnunot, sad tears, yet awful, shedding. 
Beheld, a weeper at a mortal's grave ? 
And is this weight of anguish, which they bind 
On life, this searing to the quick of mind. 
That but to God its own free path would crave, 
This crushing out of hope, and love, and youth, 
Thy will indeed?— Give light, that I may know the 
truth! 

LXXXIX. 
"For my sick soul is darken'd unto death, 
With shadows, from the suffering it hath seen ; 
The strong foundations of mine ancient faith 
Sink from beneath me — whereon shall I lean ? 
— Oh ! if from thy pure lips was wrung the sigh 
Of the dust's anguish ! if like man to die, 
— And earth round him shuts heavily— hath been 
Even to thee bitter, aid me ! — guide me ! — turn 
My wild and wandering thoughts back from their 
starless bourn !" 

XC. 
And calm'd I rose ;— but how the while had risen 
Morn's orient sun, dissolving mist and shade ! 
— Could there indeed be wrong, or chain, or prison, 
Jn the bright world such radiance might pervade ? 
It fill'd the fane, it mantled the pale form 
Which rose before me thro' the pictured storm, 
Even the gray tombs it kindled and array'd 
With life 1 — how hard to see thy race begun. 
And think man wakes to grief, wakening to thee, 
O sun ! 

XCI. 
I sought my home again : — and thou, my child, 
There at thy play beneath yon ancient pine. 
With eyes, whose lightning laughter (10) hath 

beguiled 
A thousand pangs, thence flashing joy to mine; 
Thou in thy mother's arms, a babe, didst meet 
My coming with young smiles, which yet, though 

sweet, 
Seem'd on my soul all mournfully to shine, 
And ask a happier heritage for thee. 
Than but in turn the blight of human hope to see. 

XCII. 

Now sport, for thou art free — the bright birds 

chasing. 
Whose wings waft star-like gleams from tree to 

tree ; 
Or with the fawn, thy swift wood-playmate 

racing. 
Sport on, my joyous child ! for thou art free ! 
Yes, on that day I took thee to my heart, 
And inly vow'd, for thee, a better part 
To choose ; that so thy sunny bursts of glee 
Should wake no more dim thoughts of far-seen 

woe. 
But, gladdening fearless eyes, flow on— as now 

they flow 

XCIII. 
Thou hast a rich world round thee:— Mighty 

shades 
Weaving their gorgeous tracery o'er thy head, 
With the light melting through their high arcades 
As through a pillar'd cloister's : (11) but the dead 
Sleep not beneath ; nor doth the sunbeam pass 
To marble shrines through rainbow-tinted glass; 
Yet thou, by foimt and forest-murmur led 
To worship, thou art blest ! — to thee is shown 
Earth in her holy pomp, deck'd for her God alone. 
23 



FOREST SANCTUARY. 

PART SECOND. 



Wie diese treue liebe Seele 

Von ihrem Glauben vol], 

Der ganz allein 
Ihrselig niachend ist, sich heilig quale, 
Dass sie den liebsten Mann verloren halten soil ! 

Faust. 
I never smile more — but all my days 
Walk with still footsteps and with humble eyes, 
An everlasting hymn within my sotil, 

Wilson. 



Bring me the sounding of the torrent-water 
With yet a nearer swell— fresh breeze, awake !(12) 
And river dark'ning ne'er with hues of slaughter 
Thy wave's pure silvery green,— and shining lake. 
Spread far before my cabin, with thy zone 
Of ancient woods, ye chainless things and lone I 
Send voices through the forest aisles, and make 
Glad music round me, that my soul may dare, 
Cheer'd by such tones, to look back on a dun- 
geon's air! 

II. 

Oh, Indian hunter of the desert's race ! 
That with the spear at times, or bended bow, 
Dost cross my footsteps in the fiery chase 
Of the swift elk or blue hill's flying roe ; 
Thou that beside the red night-fire thou heapest. 
Beneath the cedars and the star-light sleepest. 
Thou know'st not, wanderer — never may'st thou 

know ! 
Of the dark holds wherewith man cumbers earth. 
To shut from human eyes the dancing season's 

mirth. 

III. 

There, fetter'd down from day, to think the 

while 
How bright in Heaven the festal sun is glowing. 
Making earth's loneliest places, with his smile. 
Flush like the rose ; and how the streams are 

flowing 
With sudden sparkles thro' the shadowy grass. 
And water-flowers, all trembling as they pass ; 
And how the rich dark summer-trees are bowing 
With their full foliage; — this to knovi^, and pine. 
Bound unto midnight's heart, seems a stern lot — 

'twas mine. 

IV. 

Wherefore was this?— Because my soul had 

drawn 
Light from the book whose words are graved in 

light! 
There at its well-head had I found the dawn, 
And day, and noon of freedom : — but too bright 
It shines on that which man to man hath given. 
And call'd the truth — the very truth, from 

Heaven ! 
And therefore seeks he, in his brother's sight. 
To cast the mote; and therefore strives to bind 
With his strong chains to earth, what is not 

earth's — the mind ! 

V. 

It is a weary and a bitter task 

Back from the lip the burning word to keep. 

And to shut out Heaven's air with falsehood's 

mask. 
And in the dark urn of the soul to heap 
Indignant feelings— making even of thought 
A buried treasure, which may but be sought 
When shadows are abroad— and night— and 

sleep. 
I might not brook it long— and thus was thrown 
Into that grave-like ceil, to wither there alone. 



194 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



VI. 

And I, a chikl of danger, whose delights 

Were on dark hills and many-sounding seas — 

I, that amidst the Cordillera heights 

Had given Castilian banners to the breeze, 

And the full circle of the rainbow seen 

There, on the snows ; (33) and in my country 

been 
A mountain wanderer, from the Pyrenees 
To the Morena crags — how left I not 
Life, or the soul's life, quench'd, on that sepulchral 
spot ? 

VII. 

Because Thou didst not leave me, oh my God ! 
Thou wert with those that bore the truth of old 
Into the deserts from the oppressor's rod. 
And made the caverns of the rock their fold, 
And in the hidden chambers of the dead. 
Our guiding lamp with fire immortal fed. 
And met when stars met, by tlaeir beams to hold 
The free heart's communing with Thee, — and 

Thou 
Wert in the midst, felt, own'd— the strengthener 

then as now ! 

VIII. 

Yet once I sank. Alas ! man's wavering mind ! 
Wherefore and whence the gusts that o'er it 

blow ? 
How they bear with them, floating uncombined. 
The shadows of the past, that come and go. 
As o'er the deep the old long-buried things. 
Which a storm's working to the surface brings! 
Is the reed shaken, and must we be so, 
With every wind? — So, Father ! must we be. 
Till we can fix undimm'd our steadfast eyes on 
Thee. 

IX. 

Once my soul died within me. What had thrown 
That sickness o'er it? — Even a passing thought 
Of a clear spring, whose side, with flowers o'er- 

grown. 
Fondly and oft my boyish steps had sought! 
Perchance the damp roof's water-drops that fell 
Just then, low tinkling through my vaulted cell. 
Intensely heard amidst the stillness, caught 
Some tone from memory, of the music, swelling 
Ever with that fresh rill, from its deep rocky 
dwelling. 

X. 

But so my spirit's fever'd longings wrought, 
Wakening, it might be, to the faint sad sound 
That from the darkness of the walls they brought 
A loved scene round me, visibly around. (14) 
Yes ! kindling, spreading, brightening, hue by 

hue. 
Like stars from midnight, through the gloom it 

grew. 
That haunt of youth, hope, manhood!— till the 

bound 
Of my shut cavern seem'd dissolved, and I 
Girt by the solemn hills and burning pomp of sky. 

XI. 

I look'd — and lo ! the clear broad river flowing. 
Past the old Moorish ruin on the steep. 
The lone tower dark against a heaven all glow- 
ing, 
Like seas of glass and fire !— I saw the sweep 
Of glorious woods far down the mountain side. 
And their still shadows in the gleaming tide. 
And the red evening on its waves asleep; 
And 'midst the scene— oh ! more than all— there 
smiled 
My child's fair face, and her's, the mother of my 
child. 

XII. 

With their soft eyes of love and gladness raised 
Up to the flushing sky, as when we stood 
Last by that river, and in silence gazed 
On the rich world of sunset :— but a flood 



Of sudden tenderness my soul oppress'd. 
And I rush'd forward with a yearning breast, 
To clasp— alas ! a vision ! Wave and wood, 
And gentle faces lifted in the light 
Of day's last hectic blush, all melted from my sight. 

XIII. 

Then darkness ! oh! th' unutterable gloom 
Thatseem'd as narrowinground me, makingless 
And less my dungeon, when, with all its bloom, 
That bright dream vanish'd from my loneliness I 
It floated off", the beautiful !— yet left 
Such deep thirst in my soul, that thus bereft, 
I lay down, sick with passion's vain excess, 
And pray'd to die. — How oft would sorrow weep 
Her weariness to death, if he might come like sleep! 

XIV. 
But I was roused — and how? — It is no tale 
Even 'midst iAy shades, thou wilderness, to tell ! 
I would not have my boy's young cheek made 

pale 
Nor haunt his sunny rest with what befell 
In that drear prison-house. — His eye must grow 
More dark with thought, more earnest his fair 

brow, 
More high his heart in youthful strength must 

swell ; 
So shall it fitly burn when all is told : — 
Let childhood's radiant mist the free child yet en- 
fold ! 

XV. 
It is enough that through such heavy hours, 
As wring us by our fellowship of clay, 
I lived, and undegraded. We have powers 
To snatch th' oppressor's bitter joy away ! 
Shall the wild Indian, for his savage fame, 
Laugh and expire, and shall not Truth's high 

name 
Bear up her martyrs with all-conquering sway? 
It is enough that Torture may be vain — 
I had seen Alvar die — the strife was won from 
pain. 

XVI. 

And faint not, heart of man ! though years wane 

slow ! 
There have been those that from the deepest 

caves. 
And cells of night, and fastnesses below 
The stormy dashing of the ocean-waves, 
Down, farther down than gold lies hid, have 

nursed 
A quenchless hope, and watch'd their time, and 

burst 
On thebrightday, like wakeners from the graves! 
I was of such at last ! — unchain'd I trod 
This green earth, taking back my freedom from 

my God! 

XVII. 

That was an hour to send its fadeless trace 
Down life's far sweeping tide ! — A dim, wild 

night. 
Like sorrow hung upon the soft moon's face. 
Yet how my heart leap'd in her blessed light ! 
The shepherd's light— the sailor's on the sea— 
The hunter's homeward from the mountain free. 
Where its lone smile makes tremulously bright 
The thousand streams ! I could but gaze through 

tears — 
Oh ! what a sight is heaven, thus first beheld for 

years ! 

xvin. 

The rolling clouds !— they have the whole blue 

space 
Above to sail in— all the dome of sky ! 
My soul shot with them in their breezy race 
O'er star and gloom !— but I had yet to fly, 
As flies the hunted wolf A secret spot. 
And strange, I knew— the sunbeam knew it not ; 
Wildest of all the savage glens that lie 
In far sierras, hiding their deep springs. 
And traversed but by storms, or sounding eagles' 

wings. 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



195 



xrx. 

Ay, and I mot the storm there! — I had gain'd 
The covert's heart with swift and stealthy tread : 
A moan went past me, and the dark trees rain'd 
Their autumn foliage rustling on my head ; 
A moan — a hollow gust — and there I stood 
Girt with majestic night, and ancient wood. 
And foaming water. — Thither might have fled 
The mountain Christian with his faith of yore, 
When Afric's tambour shook the ringing western 

shore ! 

XX. 
But through the black ravine the storm came 

swelling — 
Mighty thou art amidst the hills, thou blast ! 
In thy lone course the kingly cedars felling, 
Jjike plumes upon the path of battle cast ! 
A rent oak thunder'd down beside my cave — 
Booming it rush'd, as booms a deep sea-wave ; 
A falcon soar'd ; a startled wild-deer pass'd ; 
A far-off bell toll'd faintly through the roar — 
How my glad spirit swept forth with the winds 

once more I 

XXI. 
And with the arrowy lightnings!— for they flash'd 
Smiting the branches in their fitful play, 
And brightly shivering where the torrents dash'd 
Up, even to crag and eagle's nest their spray ! 
And there to stand amidst the pealing strife. 
The strong pines groaning with tempestuous life, 
And all the mountain voices on their way, — 
Was it not joy ? — 'twas joy in rushing might, 
After those years that wove but one long dead of 

night! 

XXII. 
There came a softer hour, a lovelier moon. 
And lit me to my home of youth again. 
Through the dim chestnut shade, where oft at 

noon. 
By the fount's flashing burst, my head had Iain, 
In gentle sleep: but now I pass'd as one 
That may not pause where wood-streams whis- 
pering run. 
Or light sprays tremble to a bird's wild strain, 
Because th' avenger's voice is in the wind, 
The foe's quick rustling step close on the leaves 

behind. 

XXIII. 
My home of youth !— oh ! if indeed to part 
With the soul's loved ones be a mournful thing. 
When we go forth in buoyancy of heart, 
And bearing all the glories of our spring 
For life to breathe on. — is it less to meet. 
When these are faded?— Who shall call it sweet? 
Even though love's mingling tears may haply 

bring 
Balm as they fall, too well their heavy showers 
Teach us how much is lost of all that once was 

ours! 

XXIV. 
Not by the sunshine, with its golden glow. 
Nor the green earth, nor yet the laughing sky. 
Nor the faint flower-scents, (15) as they come 

and go 
In the soft aii', like music wandering by ; 
— Oh! not by these, th' unfailing, are we taught 
How time and sorrow on our frames have 

wrought ; 
But by the sadden'd eye, the darken'd brow. 
Of kindred aspects, and the long dim gaze. 
Which tells us we are changed,— how changed from 

other days ! 

XXV. 
Before my father — in my place of birth, 
I stood an alien. On the very floor 
Which oft had trembled to my boyish mirth. 
The love that rear'd me, knew my face no more! 
There hung the antique armour, helm and crest. 
Whose every stain woke childhood in my breast, 
There droop'd the banner, with the marks it bore 
Of Paynim spears; and I, the worn in frame 
And heart, what there was I ?— another and the 
same ! 



XXVI. 

Then bounded in a boy, with clear dark eye— 
—How should he know his father?— when we 

parted. 
From the soft cloud which mantles infancy. 
His soul, just wakening into wonder, darted 
Its first looks round. Him follovv'd one, the bride 
Of my young days, the wife how loved and tried ! 
Her glance met mine— I could not speak— she 

started 
With a bewilder'd gaze ;— until there came 
Tears to my burning eyes, and from my lips her 

name. 

XXVII. 

She knew me then !— I murmur'd " Leovor .'" 
And her heart answer'd!— oh! the voice is known 
Fir.«t from all else, and swiftest to restore 
Love's buried images with one low tone. 
That strikes like lightning, when the cheek is 

faded. 
And the brow heavily with thought o'ershaded, 
And all the brightness from the aspect gone! 
—Upon my breast she sunk, when doubt was fled. 
Weeping as those may weep, that meet in woe 

and dread. 

XXVIII. 

For there we might not rest. Alas ! to leave 
Those native towers and know that they must 

fall 
By slow decay, and none remain to grieve 
When the weeds cluster'd on the lonely wall ! 
We were the last— my boy and I— the last 
Of a long line which brightly thence had pass'd! 
My father bless'd me as I left his hall — 
With his deep tones and sweet, tho' full of years. 
He bless'd me there, and bathed my child's young 
head with tears. 

XXIX. 
I had brought sorrow on his gray hairs down, 
And cast the darkness of my branded name 
(For so he deem'd it) on the clear renown. 
My own ancestral heritage of fame. 
And yet he bless'd me !— Father ! if the dust 
Lie on those lips benign, my spirit's trust 
Is to behold thee yet, where grief and shame 
Dim the bright day no more ; and thou wilt know 
That not through guilt thy son thus bow'd thine 
age with woe ! 

XXX. 

And thou, my Leonor ! that unrepining, 
If sad in soul, didst quit all else for me. 
When stars— the stars that earliest rise— are 

shining. 
How their soft glance unseals each thought of 

thee ! 
For on our flight they smiled ; their dewy rays, 
Through the last olives, lit thy tearful gaze 
Back to the home we never more might see ; 
So pass'd we on, like earth's first exiles, turning 
Fond looks where hung the sword above their Eden 

burning. 

XXXI. 

It was a woe to say — " Farewell, my Spain ! 
The sunny and the vintage land, farewell !" 
— I could have died upon the battle-plain 
For thee, my country ! but I might not dwell 
In thy sweet vales, at peace. — 'The voice of song 
Breathes with the myrtle scent, thy hills along ; 
The citron's glow is caught from shade and dell ; 
But what are these ? — upon thy flowery sod 
I might not kneel, and pour my free thoughts out 
to God ! 

XXXTI. 

O'er the blue deep I fled, the chainless deep ! 
Strange heart of man ! that ev'n 'midst woe 

swells high. 
When through the foam he sees liis proud bark 

sweep. 
Flinging out joyous gleams to wave and sky ! 



196 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Yes 1 it swells high, whate'er he leaves behind ; 
His spirit rises with the rising wind ; 
For, wedded to the far futurity. 
On, on, it bears him ever, and the main 
Seems rushing like his hope, some happier shore 

to gain. 

XXXIII. 
Not thus is woman. Closely lier still heart 
Doth twine itself with ev'n each lifeless thing, 
Which, long remeraber'd, seem'd to bear its 

part 
In her calm joys. For ever would she cling, 
A brooding dove, to that sole spot of earth 
Where she hath loved, and given her children 

birth. 
And heard their first sweet voices. There may 

Spring 
Array no path, renew no flower, no leaf, 
But hath its breath of home, its claim to farewell 

grief. 

XXXIV. 

I look'd on Leonor, and if there seem'd 
A cloud of more than pensiveness to rise. 
In the faint smiles that o'er her features gleam'd, 
And the soft darkness of her serious eyes. 
Misty with tender gloom, I call'd it naught 
But the fond exile's pang, a lingering thought 
Of her own vale, with all its melodies 
And living light of streams. Her soul would rest 
Beneath your shades, I said, bowers of the gor- 
geous west ! 

XXXV. 

Oh! could we live in visions! could we hold 
Delusion faster, longer to our breast. 
When it shuts from us, with its mantle's fold. 
That which we see not, and are therefore blest ! 
But they our loved and loving, they to whom 
We have spread out our souls in joy and gloom. 
Their looks and accents, unto ours address'd. 
Have been a language of familiar tone 
Too long to breathe at last dark sayings and un- 
known. 

XXXVI. 

I told my heart 'twas but the exile's woe 
Which press'd on that sweet bosom ;— -I deceived 
My heart but half :— a whisper faint and low. 
Haunting it ever, and at times believed. 
Spoke of some deeper cause. How oft we seem 
Like those that dream, and knoic the while they 

dream, 
'Midst the soft falls of airy voices, grieved 
And troubled, while bright phantoms round them 
play. 
By a dim sense that all will float and fade away ! 

XXXVII. 

Yet, as if chasing joy, I woo'd the breeze. 
To speed me onward with the wings of morn. 
— Ohl far amidst the solitary seas, 
Which were not made for man, what man hath 

borne. 
Answering their moan with his! — what thou 

didst bear. 
My lost and loveliest! while that secret care 
Grew terror, and thy gentle spirit, worn 
By its dull brooding" weight, gave way at last. 
Beholding me as one from hope for ever castl 

XXXVIII. 

For unto thee, as through all change, reveal'd 
Mine inward being lay. In other eyes 
I had to bow me yet, and make a shield. 
To fence my burning bosom, of disguise ; 
But the still hope sustain'd, ere long to win 
Some sanctuary, whose green retreats within, 
My thoughts unfetter'd to thei r source might ri se. 
Like songs and scents of morn. — But thou didst 

look 
Through all my soul, and thine even unto fainting 

shook. 



XXXIX. 

Fall'n, fall'n, I seem'd — yet, oh! not less be- 
loved, 
Tho' from thy love was pluck'd the early pride. 
And harshly, by a gloomy faith, reproved 
And sear'd with shame ! — though each young 

flower had died. 
There was the root, — strong, living, not the less 
That all it yielded now was bitterness; 
Yet still such love as quits not misery's side. 
Nor drops from guilt its ivy-like embrace, 
Nor turns away from death its pale heroic face. 

XL. 

Yes ! thou hadst follow'd me through fear and 

flight ; 
Thou wouldst have follow'd, had my pathway led 
Even to the scaffold; had the flashing light 
Of the raised axe made strong men shrink with 

dread. 
Thou, 'midst the hush of thousands, wouldst 

have been 
With thy clasp'd hands beside me kneeling seen, 
And meekly bowing to the shame thy head — 
— The shame ! — oh ! making beautiful to view 
The might of human love — fair thing I so bravely 
true ! 

XLI. 
There was thine agony — to love so well 
Where fear made love life's chastener. — Hereto- 
fore 
Whate'er of earth's disquiet round thee fell. 
Thy soul, o'erpassing its dim bounds, could soar 
Away to sunshine, and thy clear eye speak 
Most of the skies when grief most touch'd thy 

cheek. 
Now, that far brightness faded! never more 
Couldst thou lift heavenwards for its hope thy 
heart. 
Since at Heaven's gate it seem'd that thou and I 
must part. 

XLII. 
Alas ! and life hath moments when a glance 
(If thought to sudden watchfulness be slirr'd,) 
A flush — a fading of the cheek perchance, 
A word — less, less — the cadence of a word. 
Lets in our gaze the mind's dim veil beneath. 
Thence to bring haply knowledge fraught with 

death ! 
— Even thus, what never from thy lip was heard 
Broke on my soul. — I knew that in thy sight 
I stood — howe'er beloved — a recreant from the 
light ! 

XLIII. 
Thy sad sweet hymn, at eve, the seas along, — 
— Oh ! the deep soul it breathed I — the love, the 

woe. 
The fervour, pour'd in that full gush of song, 
As it went floating through the fiery glow 
Of the rich sunset! — bringing thoughts of Spain, 
With all her vesper-voices o'er the main. 
Which seem'd responsive in its murmuring flow, 
— "^ue sanctissima .'" — how oft that lay 
Hath melted from my heart the martyr-strength 
away ! 

Ave sanctissima ! 
'Tis night-fall on the sea; 

Ora pro nobis ! 
Our souls rise to thee ! 

Watch us while shadows lie 
O'er the dim water spread ; 

Hear the heart's lonely sigh, 
— Thine, too, hath bled I 

Thou that hast look'd on death. 
Aid us when death is near ! 

Whisper of Heaven to faith ; 
Sweet mother, hear ! 

Ora pro nobis ! 
The wave must rock our sleep, 

Ora, mater, ora! r.. .-' 

Thou star of the deep ! 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



197 



XLIV. 
" Orapro nobis, mater T — What a spell 
Was in those notes with day's last glory dying 
On the flush'd waters ! — seem'd they not to swell 
From the far dust, wherein my sires were lying 
With crucifix and sword ? — Oh! yet how clear 
Comes their reproachful sweetness to mine ear! 
" Ora!" — with all the purple waves replying, 
All my youth's visions rising in the strain — 
— And I had thought it much to bear the rack and 
chain I 

XLV. 

Torture! — the sorrow of affection's eye, 
Fixing its meekness on the spirit's core, 
Deeper, and teaching more of agony. 
May pierce than many swords ! — and this I bore 
With a mute pang. Siuce I had vainly striven 
From its free springs to pour the truth of Heaven 
Tnto thy trembling soul, my Leonor! 
Silence rose up where hearts no more could share: 
— Alas! for those that love, and may not blend in 
prayer ! 

XLvr. 

We could not pray together 'midst the deep. 
Which, like a floor of sapphire, round us lay, 
Through days of splendour, nights too bright for 

sleep. 
Soft, solemn, holy ! — We were on our way 
Unto the mighty Cordillera-land, 
With men whom tales of that world's golden 

strand 
Hadlured to leave their vines.— Oh! who shall say 
What thoughts rose in us, when the tropic sky 
Touch'd all its molten seas with sunset's alchemy? 

XLVII. 
Thoughts no more mingled! — Then came night 

— th' intense 
Dark blue — the burning stars ! — I saw thee shine 
Once more, in thy serene magnificence, 

Southern Cross ! (16) as when thy radiant sign 
First drew my gaze of youth.— No, not as then ; 

1 had been stricken by the darts of men 

Since those fresh days, and now thy light divine 

Look'don mine anguish, while within me strove 

The still small voice against the might of suffering 

love. 

XLVIII. 
But thou, the clear, the glorious ! thou wert 

pouring 
Brilliance and joy upon the crystal wave. 
While she, that met thy ray with eyes adoring. 
Stood in the lengthening shadow of the grave ! 
— Alas ! I watch'd her dark religious glance. 
As it still sought thee thro' the Heaven's expanse. 
Bright Cross! — and knew not that I watch'd what 

gave 
But passing lustre— shrouded soon to be — 
A soft light fou nd no more — no more on earth or sea ! 

XLIX. 
I knew not all— yet something of unrest 
Sat on my heart. Wake, ocean-wind ! I said ; 
Waft us to land, in leafy freshness drest. 
Where thro' rich clouds of foliage o'er her head. 
Sweet day may steal, and rills unseen go by. 
Like singing voices, and the green earth lie. 
Starry with flowers, beneath her graceful tread! 
— But the calm bound us 'midst the glassy main ; 
Ne'er was her step to bend earth's living flower 

again. 

L. 
Yes! as if heaven upon the waves were sleeping, 
Vexing my soul with quiet, there they lay 
All moveless through their blue transparence 

keeping. 
The shadows of our sails from day fo day ; 
While she— oh! strongest in the strong heart's 

woe — 
And vet I live! I feel the sunshine's glow— 
And I am he that look'd, and saw decay 
Steal o'er the fair of earth, the adored too much ! 
—It is afearful thing to love what death may touch. 



LI. 

A fearful thing that love and death may dwell 
In the same world!— She faded on — and I — 
Blind to the last, there needed death to tell 
My trusting soul that she could fade to die ! 
Yet, ere she parted, I had mark'd a change. 
But it breathed hope — 'twas beautiful, though 

strange : 
Something of gladness in the melody 
Of her low voice, and in her words a flight 
Of airy thought — alas! too perilously bright! 

LII. 

And a clear sparkle in her glance, yet wild, 
And quick, and eager, like the flashing gaze 
Of some all-wondering and awakening child, 
That first the glories of the earth surveys. 
— How could it thus deceive me ? — she had worn 
Around her, like the dewy mists of morn, 
A pensive tenderness through happiest days, 
And a soft world of dreams had seem'd to lie 
Still in her dark, and deep, and spiritual eye. 

LIII. 

And I could hope in that strange fire !— she died, 
She died with all its lustre on her mien ! 
— The day was melting from the waters wide. 
And through its long bright hours her thoughts 

had been. 
It seem'd, with restless and unwonted yearning, 
To Spain's blue skies and dark sierras turning ; 
For her fond words were all of vintage-scene. 
And flowering myrtle, and sweet citron's breath — 
Oh ! with what vivid hues life comes back oft on 

death ! 

LIV. 
And from her lips the mountain-songs of old, 
In wild faint snatches, fitfully had sprung; 
Songs of the orange bower, the Moorish hold, 
The " Rio verde," (17) on her soul that hung. 
And thence flow'd forth. — But now the sun was 

low. 
And watching by my side its last red glow, 
That ever stills the heart, once more she sung 
Her own soft " Ora, mater V — and the sound 
Was ev'n like love's farewell — so mournfully pro- 
found. 

LV. 
The boy had dropp'd to slumber at our feet ;— 
" And I have lull'd him to his smiling rest 
Once more!" she said: — I raised him— it was 

sweet, 
Yet sad, to see the perfect calm which hless'd 
His look that hour ; — for now her voice grew 

weak : 
And on the flowery crimson of his cheek. 
With her white lips a long, long kiss she press'd. 
Yet light, to wake him not. — Then sank her head 
Against my bursting heart. — What did I clasp ? — 

the dead ! 

LVI. 
I call'd— to call what answers not our cries— 
By that we loved to stand unseen, unheard. 
With the loud passion of our tears and sighs 
To see but some cold glistering ringlet stirr'd, 
And in the quench'd eye's fixedness to gaze, 
All vainly searching for the parted rays; 
This is what waits us !— Dead !— with that chill 

word 
To link our bosom-names!— For this we pour 
Our souls upon the dust — nor tremble to adore ! 

LVII. 

But the true parting came !— I look'd my last 
On the sad beauty of that slumb'ring face ; 
How could I think the lovely spirit pass'd. 
Which there had left so tenderly its trace ? 
Yet a dim awfulness was on the brow — 
No! not like sleep to look upon art Thou, 
Death, death! — she lay, a thing for earth's em- 
brace. 
To cover with spring-wreaths.— For earth's? — 
the wave 
That gives the bier no flowers— makes moan above 
her grave! 



198 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



LVIII. 

On the mid-seas a knell ! — for man was there, 
Anguish and love — the mourner with his dead ! 
A long low-rolling knell— a voice of prayer — 
Dark glassy waters, like a desert spread, — 
And the pale shining Southern Cross on high, 
Its faint stars fading from a solemn sky, 
Where mighty clouds before the dawn grew red; — 
Were these things round me ? such o'er memory 

sweep 
Wildly, when aught brings back that burial of the 

deep. 

LIX. 

Then the broad lonely sunrise .' — and the plash 
Into the sounding waves ! 18) — around her head 
They parted, with a glancing moment's flash. 
Then shut — and all was still. And now thy bed 
Is of their secrets, gentlest Leonor! 
Once fairest of young brides ! — and never more, 
Loved as thou wert, may human tear be shed 
Above thy rest ! — No mark the proud seas keep. 
To show where he that wept may- pause again to 
weep. 

LX. 

So the depths took thee ! — Oh! the sullen sense 
Of desolation in that hour compress'd ! 
Dust going down, a speck, amidst th' immense 
And gloomy waters, leaving on their breast 
The trace a weed might leave there ! — Dust ! — 

the thing 
Which to the heart was as a living spring 
Of joy, with fearfulness of love possess'd. 
Thus sinking! — Love, joy, fear, all crush'd to 

this— 
And the wide Heaven so far— so fathomless th' 

abyss ! 

LXL 

Where the line sounds not, where the wrecks 

lie low. 
What shall wake thence the dead ? — Blest, blest 

are they 
That earth to earth intrust ; for they may know 
And tend the dwelling whence the slumberer's 

clay 
Shall rise at last, and bid the young flowers 

bloom. 
That waft a breath of hope around the tomb, 
And kneel upon the dewy turf to pray ! 
But thou, what cave hath dimly chamber'd thee? 
'Vain dreams! — oh! art thou not where there is no 

more sea 1 (19) 

LXII. 

The wind rose free and singing : — when for ever. 
O'er that sole spot of all tlie watery plain, 
I could have bent my sight with fond endeavour 
Down, where its treasure was, its gl ance to strain ; 
Then rose the reckless wind ! — Before our prow 
The white foam flash'd— ay, joyously— and thou 
Wert left with all the solitary main 
Around thee — and thy beauty in my heart. 
And thy meek sorrowing love ! oh, where could 
tJiat depart ? 

LXIII. 

I will not speak of woe ; I may not tell — 
Friend tells not such to friend — the thoughts 

which rent 
My fainting spirit, when its wild farewell 
Across the billows to thy grave was sent. 
Thou, there most lonely ! — He that sits above, 
In his calm glory, will forgive the love 
His creatures bear each other, ev'n if blent 
With a vain worship ; for its close is di.m 
Ever with grief, which leads the wrung soul back 

to Him ! 

LXIV. 

And with a milder pang if now I bear 
To think of thee in thy forsaken rest. 
If from my heart be lifted the despair. 
The sharp remorse with healing influence press'd, 



If the soft eyes that visit me in sleep 
Look not reproach, tho' still they seem to weep; 
It is that He my sacrifice hath bless'd. 
And fill'd my bosom, through its inmost cell. 
With a deep chastening sense that all at last is 
well. 

LXV. 

Yes! thou art now— Oh! wherefore does the 

thought 
Of the wave dashing o'er thy long bright hair. 
The sea-weed into its dark tresses wrought, 
The sand thy pillow — thou that wert so fair; 
Come o'er me still? — Earth, earth!— it is the hold 
Earth ever keeps on that of earthy mould ! 
But thoti art breathing now in purer air, 
I well believe, and freed from all of error. 
Which blighted here the root of thy sweet life with 
terror. 

LXVI. 

And if the love which here was passing light. 
Went with what died not — Oh! that this we 

knew. 
But this!— that through the silence of the night, 
Some voice of all the lost ones and the true. 
Would speak, and say, if in their far repose, 
We are yet aught of v('hat we were to those 
We call the dead !— their passionate adieu. 
Was it but breath, to perish!— Holier trust 
Be mine !— thy love is there, but purified from dust ! 

LXVIL 

A thing all heavenly !— clear'd from that which 

hung 
As a dim cloud between us, heart and mind ! 
Loosed from the fear, the grief, whose tendrils 

flung 
A chain so darkly, with its growth entwined. 
This is my hope ! — though when the sunset fades, 
When forests rock the midnight on their shades, 
When tones of wail are in the rising wind. 
Across my spirit some faint doubt may sigh ; 
For the strong hours will sway this frail mortality ! 

LXVIIL 

We have been wandererssincethosedays of woe. 
Thy boy and I! — As wild birds tend their young. 
So have I tended him — my bounding roe ! 
The high Peruvian solitudes among ; 
And o'er the Andes-torrents borne his form. 
Where our frail bridge hath qyiver'd 'midst the 

storm. — (20) 
— But there the war-notes of my country rung. 
And, smitten deep of Heaven and man, I fled 
To hide in shades unpierced a mark'd and weary 

head. 

LXIX. 

But he went on in gladness — that fair child! 
Save when at times bis bright eye seem'd to 

dream. 
And bis young lips, which then no longer smiled, 
Ask'd of his mother ! — that was but a gleam 
Of Memory, fleeting fast; and then his play 
Thro' tho wide Llanos (2 1 )cheer'd again our way, 
And by the mighty Oronoco stream. 
On whose lone margin we have heard at morn. 
From the mysterious rocks, the sunrise-music 

borne. (22) 

LXX. 

So like a spirit's voice ! a harping tone, 
Lovely, yet ominous to mortal ear, 
Such as might reach us from a world unknown. 
Troubling man's heart with thrills of joy and 

fear! 
'Twas sweet !— yet those deep southern shades 

oppress'd 
My soul with stillness, like the calms that rest 
On melancholy waves : (23) I sigh'd to hear 
Once more earth's breezy sounds, her foliage 

fann'd, 
Andturn'd toseekthewildsofthe red hunter's land, 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



199 



LXXI. 

And we have won a bower of refuse now, 
In this fresh waste, tlie breath of whose repose 
Hath oool'd, like dew, the fever of my brow. 
And whose green oaks and cedars round meclose, 
As temple-walls, and pillars, that exclude 
Earth's haunted dreams from their free solitude ; 
All, save the image and the thought of those 
Before us gone ; our loved of early years, 
Gone wliere affection's cup hath lost the taste of 
tears. 

LXXII. 

I see a star — eve's first born ! — in whose train 
Past scenes, words, looks, come back. The ar- 
rowy spire 
Of the lone cypress, as of wood-girt fane, 
Rest dark and still amidst a heaven of fire ; 
The pine gives forth its odours, and the lake 
Gleams like one ruby, and the soft winds wake, 
Till every string of nature's solemn lyre 
Is touch'd to answer ; its most secret tone 
Drawn from each tree, for each hath whispers all 
its own. 

LXXIir. 

And hark ! another murmur on the air. 
Not of the hidden rills, nor quivering shades ! 
— That is the cataract's, which the breezes bear, 
Filling the leafy twilight of the glades 
With hollow surge-like sounds, as from tlie bed 
Of the blue mournful seas, that keep the dead ! 
But they are far ! — the low sun here pervades 
Dim forest-arches, bathing with red gold 
Their stems, till each is made a marvel to behold. 

LXXIV. 

Gorgeous, yet full of gloom!— In such an hour. 
The vesper-melody of dying bells 
Wanders through Spain, from each gray con- 
vent's tower 
O'er shining rivers pour'd, and olive-dells. 
By every peasant heard, and muleteer. 
And hamlet, round my home : — and I am here, 
Living again through all my life's farewells. 
In these vast woods, where farewell ne'er was 
spoken. 
And sole I lift to Heaven a sad heart— yet un- 
broken ! 

LXXV. 

In such an hour are told the hermit's beads ; 
With the white sail the seaman's hymn floats by; 
Peace be with all! vvhate'er their varying creeds. 
With all that send up holy thoughts on high ! 
Come to me, boy !— by Guadalquivir's vines. 
By every stream of Spain, as day declines, 
Man's prayers are mingled in the rosy sky. 
— We, too, will pray ; nor yet unheard, my child ! 
Of Him whose voice we hear at eve amidst the wild. 

LXXVI. 

At eve ? — oh ! through all hours ! — from dark 

dreams oft 
Awakening, I look forth, and learn the might 
Of solitude, while thou art breathing soft. 
And low, my loved one! on the breast of night; 
I look forth on the stars— the shadowy sleep 
Of forests — and the lake, whose gloomy deep 
Sends up red sparkles to the fire-flies' light. 
A lonely world !— ev'n fearful to man's thought, 
But for His presence felt, whom here my soul hath 

sought. 



NOTES. 

Note 1. 

And sighing through the fcai/iery canes, ^c. 

The canes in some parts of the American forests form a thick 
uDderarowth for many hundred miles.— See Hodgson's Idlers from 
North Jlmcrica, vol. 1. p 242. 



Note 2. 

And for their birth-place moan, as moans the octan-shdU 
Such a shell as Wordsworth has beautifully describetj : 

" I have seen 
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
The convolutions of a smooth-Iipp'd shell ; 
To which, in silence hush'd, his very soul 
Listen'd intently, and his countenance soon 
Brighten'd with joy j for murmuring from within 
Were heard — sonorous cadences ! whereby, 
To his belief, the monitor express'd 
Mysterious union with its native sea. 
—Even such a shell the universe itself 
Is to the ear of faith." — The Excursion. 

Note 3. 

I see. an oak before me, ^c. 
"I recollect hearing a traveller, of poetical temperament, ex- 
pressing the kind of horror he felt on beholding on the banks of the 
Missouri, an oak of prodigious size, which had been in a manner 
overpowered by an enormous wild grape vine. The vine had 
clasped its huge folds round the trunk, and from thence had wound 
about every branch and twig, until the mighty tree had withered in 
its embrace. It seemed like Laocoon struggling ineffectually in-the 
coils of the monster Python.^^—Bracebridge Hall. Chapter on Fo- 
rest Trees. 

Note 4. 

Thou hast perished 
More nobly far, my Alvar .'—making known 
Themight of truth. 
For a more interesting account of the Spanish Protestants, and the 
heroic devotion with which they met the spirit of persecution in 
the sixteenth century, see the Quarterly Review, No. 57, art. Qutn'j 
F'isit to Spain. 

Note 5. 

/ loolCd on two 
Following his footsteps to the same dread place^ 
For the same guilt — his sisters ! — 
"A priest, named Gonzalez, had, among otber picselytes, gained 
over two young females, his sisters, to the protestant faith. AU 
three were confined in the dungeons of the Inquisition. The torture, 
repeatedly applied, could not draw from them the least evidence 
against their religious associates. Every artifice was employed to 
obtain a recantation from the two sisters, since the constancy and 
learning of Gonzalez precluded all hopes of a theological victory. 
Their answer, if not exactly logical, is wonderfully simple and 
affecting. * We will die in the faith of our brother : he is too wise 
to be wrong, and too good to deceive us.' — The three stakes on which 
they died were near each other. The priest had been gagged till the 
moment of lighting up the wood. The few minutes that he was 
allowed to speak he employed in comforting his sisters, with whom 
he sung the 109th Fsalm, ti'U the flames smothered their voices." 
Ibid. 

Note 6. 

And deem the name 
A hundred chiefs had borne, cast down by you to shame. 
The names, not only of the immediate victims of the Inquisition, 
were devoted to infamy, but those of all their relations were branded 
with the same indelible stain, which was likewise to descend as an 
inheritance to their latest posterity. 

Note 7. 

^Twas not within the city — but in sight 

Of the snouj-crown^d sierras. 
The piles erected for these executions were without the towns, 
and the final scene of an Auto da Fe was sometimes, from the length 
of the preceding ceremonies, delayed till midnight. 

Note 8. 

I would have calVd, adjuring the darh cloud, 
To the most ancient Heavens I would have said^- 
" Speak tome! show me truth !^' 
For one of the most powerful and impressive pictures perhaps- 
ever drawn, of a young mind struggling against habit and supersti- 
tion in its first ai^p'iratidns after truth, see the admirable Letters from 
Spain by Don Leucadio Dohlado. 

Note 9. 

For thick ye girt me round, ye long-departed ! 

Dust — image form — with cross, and shield, and crest. 
" You walk from end to end over a floor of tomb-stones, inlaid in 
brass with the forms of the departed, mitres, and crosiers, and 
spears, and shields, and helmets, all mingled together — ail worn into 
glass-like smoothness by the feet and the knees of long-departed wor- 
shippers. Around, on every side, each in their separate chapel, 
sleep undisturbed from age to age the venerable ashes of the holiest 
or the loftiest that of old came thither to worship— their images and 
their dying prayers sculptured among the resting-places of their re- 
mains."— From' a beautiful description of ancient Spanish Cathe* 
drals, in Pefer's Letters to his Kinsfolk. 

Note 10. 

TVith eyes, whose lightning laughter liath hcguUed 
A thousand pangs. 

" E 1* lanipeggiar de 1' angelico rlso.^'—Feirarch. 



200 



HEMANS' POEMS, 



Note 11. 

Mighty shades 
Waving their gorgeous tracery o'er thy heady 
With the light melting through their high arcades^ 
^s through a pillared cloister^s. 
" Sometimes their discourse was held in the deep shades of moss- 
grown forests, whose gloom and interlaced boughs first suggested 
that Gothic architecture, beneath whose pointed arches, where they 
had studied and prayed, the parti-coloured windows shed a tinged 
light : scenes which the gleams of sunshine, penetrating the deep 
foliage, and flickering on the variegated turf below, might have 
recalled to their memory. ^^— Webster Oration on the Landing of 
the Pilgrim Fathers in New Englaiid,~'6tQ Hodgson's Letters 
from North America^ vol. ii. p. 305. 

Note 12. 

Bring Trie the. sounding of the torrent-water^ 
With yet a nearer swell— -fresh breeze^ awake ! 

The varying sounds of waterfalls are thus alluded to in an inte- 
resting work of Mrs. Grant's. " On the opposite side the view was 
bounded by steep hills, covered with lofty pines, from which a 
waterfall descended, which not only gave animation to the sylvan 
scene, but was the best barometer imaginable j foretelling by its va- 
ried and intelligible sounds every approaching change, not only of 
the weather, but of the wind."— iV/cmoirs of an American Ladv^ 
vol. i. p. 143. 

Note 13. 



Note 14. 
£ut so my spiriVs fevered longings wrought, 
Wakening, it might be, to the faint sad sound, 
That from the darkness of the walls they brought 
A loved scene round me, visibly around. 
Many striking instances of the vividness with which the mind, 
■when strongly excited, has been known to renovate past impressions, 
and embody them into visible imagery, are noticed and accounted 
for in Dr. Hibbert's Philosophy of Apparitions. The following 
illustrative passage is quoted in the same work, from the writings of 
the late Dr. Ferriar. " I remember that, about the age of fourteen, 
it was a source of great amusement to myself, if I had been viewing 
any interesting object in the course of the day, such as a romantic 
ruin, a fine seat, or a review of a body of troops, as soon as evening 
came on, if I had occasion to go into a dark room, the whole scene 
was brought before my eyes with a brilliancy equal to what it had 
possessed in daylight, and remained visible for several minutes. I 
have DO doubt that dismal and frightful images have been thus pre- 
sented to young persons after scenes of domestic aflliction or public 
horror." 

The following passage from the " Alcazar of Seville," a tale, or 
historical sketch, by the author of Doblado's letters, affordsa further 
illustration of this subject:— " When descending fast into the vale 
of years, I strongly fix my mind's eye on those narrow, shady, silent 
streets, where I breathed the scented air which came rustling throush 
the surrounding groves; where the footsteps re-echoed from the 
clean watered porches of the houses, and where every object spoke 

of quiet and contentment ; the objects around me begin to 

fade into a mere delusion, and not only the thoughts, but the external 
sensations, which I then experienced, revive with a reality that almost 
makes me shudder— it has so much the character of a trance, or 
vision." 

Note 15. 

Nor the faint flowcr-sce^its, as they come and go 

In the soft air, like mv^sic wandering by, 
" For because the breath of flowers is farre sweeter in the aire 
(where it comes and goes like the warbling of music) than in the 
hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that delight than to know 
what be the flowers and plants which doe best pe"rfume the aire." — 
Lord Bacon^s Essay on Gardens. 

Note 16. 

/ saw thee shine 

Once more, in thy serene mapiificencCf 

O Southe:)-7i Cross ! 

"The pleasure we felt on discovering the Southern Cross was 

warmly shared by such of the crew as had lived in the colonies. In 

the solitude of the seas, we hail a star as a friend from whom we 

have long been separated. Among the Portuguese and the Spaniards, 



peculiar motives seem to increase this feeling ; a religious sentiment 
attaches them to a constellation, the form of which recalls the sign 
of the faith planted by their ancestors in the deserts of the New 

World It has been observed at what hour of the night, in 

difftjrent seasons, the Cross of the South is erect or inclined. It \s a 
time-piece that advances very regularly near four minutes a day, 
and no other group of stars exhibits to the naked eye an observation 
of time so easily made. How often have we heard our guides ex- 
claim, in the savannas of Venezuela, or in the desert extending from 
Lima to Truxillo, " Midnight is past, the cross begins to bend !" 
How often these words reminded us of that affecting scene where 
Paul and Virginia, seated near the source of the river Lataniers, 
conversed together for the last time, and where the old man, at the 
sight of the Southern Cross, warns them that it is time to separate." 
— £fe HumboldVs Travels. 

Note 17. 



"Rioverde, rio verde," the popular Spanish romance, known to 
the English reader in Percy's translation. 
" Gentle river, gentle river, 
Lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore ! 
Many a brave and noble captain 
Floats along thy willow'd shore," &c, &c. 

Note 18. 

Then the broad lonely sunrise!-— and the plash 

Into the sounding waves ! — 
De Humboldt, in describing the burial of a young Ashirian at sea, 
mentions the entreaty of the ofiiciating priest, that the body, which 
had been brought upon deck during the night, might not be com- 
mitted to the waves until after sunrise, in order to pay it the last 
rites according to the usage of the Romish church. 

Note 19. 
Oh art thou not where there is no more sea ? 
"And there was no more sea."— 72ex). chap. xxi. v. 1. 

Note 20. 

And o'er the Andes-ton-ents borne his form, 

Where our frail bridge hath quivered ''midst the storm. 

The bridges over many deep chasms among the Andes are pendu- 
lous, and formed only of the fibres of equinoctial plants. Their 
tremulous motion has aflTorded a striking image to one of the stanzas 
in ' Gertrude of Wyoming.' 

" Anon some wilder portraiture he draws, 

Of nature's savage glories he would speak j 

The loneliness of earth, that overawes, 

Where, resting by the tomb of old Cacique, 

The lama-driver, on Feruvia's peak, 

Nor voice, nor living motion marks around, 

But storks that to the boundless forest shriek, 

Or wild-cane arch, high flung o'er gulf profound, 

That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound. 

Note 21. 

And then his play 
Through the wide Llanos cheer''d again our way. 
Llanos, or savannas, the great plains in South America. 

Note 22. 
A7id by the mighty Oronoco stream, 
On whose loJie margin we have lieard at mom 
From the mysterious rocks, the sunrise music borne, 
De Humboldt speaks of these rocks on the shores of the Oronoco 
Travellers have heard from time to time subterraneous sounds pro 
ceed from them at sun-rise, resembling those of an organ. He be- 
lieves in the existence of this mysterious music, although not fortu- 
nate enough to have heard it himself, and thinks that it may be pro- 
duced by currents of air issuing through the crevices. 

Note 23. 

Yet those deep southern, shades oppressed 
My soul with stilbiess. 
The same distinguished traveller frequently alludes to the extreme 
stillness of the air in the etfiatorial regions of the new continent, 
and particularly on the thickly wooded shores of the Oronoco. ** In 
this neighbourhood," he says, "no breath of wind ever agitates the 
foliage." 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



201 



S^ticjii^i ^nvitu, 



NATIONAL LYRICS, 

AND 

SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

INTRODUCTORY STANZAS. 



THE THEMES OF SONG. 



Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love, and hope, 
And melancholy fear subdued by faith. 

JVordsiuo)-th, 



Where shall the minstrel find a theme ? 

— Where'er, for freedom shed, 
Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream, 

Amidst the mountains, red. 

Where'er a rock, a fount, a grove, 

Bears record to the faith 
Of love, deep, holy, fervent love, 

Victor o'er fear and death. 

Where'er a chieftain's crested bvow 
Too soon hath been struck down, 

Or a bright virgin head laid low, 
Wearing its youth's first crown. 

Where'er a spire points up to heaven, 
Through storm and summer air, 

Telling, that all around have striven 
Man's heart, and hope, and prayer. 

Where'er a blessed Home hath been, 

That now is Home no more : 
A place of ivy, darkly green. 

Where laughter's light is o'er. 

Where'er, by some forsakan grave, 
Some nameless greensward heap, 

A bird may sing, a wild-flower wave, 
A star its vigil keep. 

Or where a yearning heart of old, 

A dream of shepherd men, 
With forms of more than earthly mould 

Hath peopled grot or glen. 

TVjeremay the bard's high themes be found— 

— We die, we pass away: 
But faith, love, pity — these are bound 

To earth without decay. 

The heart that burns, the cheek that glows. 

The tear from hidden springs. 
The thorn and glory of the rose — 

T/iese are undying things. 

Wave after wave of mighty stream 

To the deep sea hath gone : 
Yet not the less, like youth's bright dream. 

The exhaustless flood rolls on. 

26 



RHINE SONG 

OF THE GERMAN SOLDIERS AFTER VICTORY. 



" I wish you could have heard Sir Walter Scott de- 
scribe a glorious sight, which had been witnessed by a 
friend of his !— the crossing of the Rhine, at Ehrenbreit- 
stein, by the German army of Liberators on their victo- 
rious return from France. ' At the first gleam of the 
river,' he said, 'they all burst forth into the national 
chaunt, ' Am Rhein ! Am Rhein !' They were two days 
passing over; and the rocks and the castle were ringing 
to the song the whole time ;— fur each band renewed it 
while crossing; and even the Cossacks, with the clash 
and the clang, and the roll of their stormy war-music, 
catching the enthusiasm of the scene, swelled forth the 
chorus, 'Am Rhein ! Am Rheinr" -Manuscript Letter. 



TO THE AIR OF— "am RHEIN, AM RHEIN." 



SINGLE VOICE. 

It is the Rhine ! our mountain vineyards laving, 
I see the bright flood shine, I see the bright flood 
shine ! 

Sing on the march, with every banner waving 

Sing, brothers, 'tis the Rhine! Sing, brothers, 
'tis the Rhine! 

CHORUS. 

The Rhine! the Rhine our own imperial River! 

Be glory on thy track, be glory on tliy track ! 
AVe left thy shores, to die or to deliver ;— 

We bear thee Freedom back, we bear thee Free- 
dom back ! 

SINGLE VOICE. 

Hail! Hail! my childhood knew thy rush of water, 

Ev'n as my mother's song; ev'n as my mother's 

song; 

That sound went past me on the field of slaughter. 

And heart and arm grew strong ! And heart 

and arm grew strong ! 

CHORUS. 

Roll proudly on !— brave blood is with thee sweep- 
ing, 
Pour'd out by sons of thine, pour'd out by sons 
of thine. 
Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping. 
Like thee, victorious Rhine ! Like thee, victo- 
rious Rhine 1 

SINGLE VOICE. 

Home !— Home !— thy glad wave hath a tone of 

greeting, 

Thy path is by my home, thy path is by my home : 

Even now my children count the hours till meeting^ 

O ransom'd ones, I come ! O ransom'd ones, I 

come ! 



202 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



CHORUS. 

Go. tell the seas, that chain shall bind thee never, 

Sound on by hearth and shrine, sound on by 

hearth and shrine ! 

Sing through the hills, that thou art free for ever— 

Lift up thy voice, O Rhine ! Lift up thy voice, 

O Rliine ! 



A SONG OF DELOS. 



The Island of Delos was considered of such peculiar 
sanctity by the ancients, that they did not allow it to be 
desecrated by the events of birth or death. In the fol- 
lowing poem, a young priestess of Apollo is supposed 
to be conveyed from its shores during tlie last hours of a 
mortal sickness, and to bid the scenes of her youth fare- 
well in a sudden flow of unpremeditated song. 



Terre, soleil, vallons, belle et douce, Nature, 
Je vous dois uue larme aux bords de mon tombeau ; 
L'air est si parfume ! la luniiere est si pure • 
Aux regards d' un Mouraot le soliel est si beau ! 

Lamartinc. 



A SONG was heard of old— a low, sweet song. 
On the blue seas by Delos : from that isle. 
The Sun-God's own domain, a gentle girl, 
Gentle — yet all inspired of soul, of mien, 
Lit with a life too perilously bright, 
Was borne away to die. How beautiful 
Seems this world to the dying !— but for her, 
The child of beauty and of poesy. 
And of soft Grecian skies — oh I who may dream 
Of all that from her changeful eye tlash'd forth. 
Or glanced more quiveringly through starl-y tears, 
As on her land's rich vision, fane o'er fane 
Colour'd with loving light — she gazed her last, 
Her young life's last, that hour! From her pale 

brow 
And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back. 
And bending forward — as the spirit sway'd 
The reed-like form still to the shore beloved, 
Breathed the swan-music of her wild farewell 
O'er dancing waves : — " Oh ! linger yet," she cried, 

" Oh ! linger, linger on the oar. 
Oh ! pause upon the deep ! 

That I may gaze yet once, once more, 
Where floats the golden day o'er fane and steep. 
Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore ; 
— Oh I linger, linger on the parting oar ! 

" I see the laurels fling back showers 
Of soft light still on many a shrine ; 

I see the path to haunts of flowers 
Through the dim olives load its gleaming line ; 
I hear a sound of flutes — a swell of song — 
Mine is too low to reach that joyous throng ! 

" Oh! linger, linger on the oar 
Beneath my native sky ! 

Let my life part from that bright shore 
With Day's last crimson — gazing let me die ! 
Thou bark, glide slowly ! — slowly should be borne 
The voyager that never shall return. 

" A fatal gift hath been thy dower, 

Lord of the Lyre ! to me ; 
With song and wreath from bower to bower. 
Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free ; 
While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apart. 
Have lain and listen'd to my beating heart. 

" Now, wasted by the inborn fire, 

I sink to early rest ; 
The ray that lit the incense-pyre, 
Leaves unto death its temple in my breast. 
— O sunshine, skies, rich flowers I too soon I go, 
While round me thus triumphantly ye glow ! 



" Bright Isle ! might but thine echoes keep 

A tone of my fai'ewell, 
One tender accent, low and deep. 
Shrined 'midst thy founts and haunted rocks to 

dwell I 
Might my last breath send music to thy shore ! 
—Oh ! linger, seamen, linger on the oar !" 



ANCIENT GREEK CHAUNT OF VICTORY. 



Fill high the bowl with Samian wine, 
Our virgins dance beneath the shade. 



Byron, 



lo ! they come, they come ! 

Garlands for every shrine ! 
Strike lyres to greet them home ; 

Bring roses, pour ye wine ! 

Swell, svi'ell the Dorian flute 
Through the blue, triumphant sky ! 

Let the Cittern's tone salute 
The sons of victory. 

With the ofl"ering of bright blood 
They have ransom'd hearth and tomb. 

Vineyard, and field, and flood;— 
lo ! they come, they come ! 

Sing it where olives wave, 

And by the glittering sea, 
And o'er each hero's grave, — 

Sing, sing, the land is free ! 

Mark ye the flashing oars. 

And the spears that light the deep? 
How the festal sunshine pours 

Where the lords of battle sweep ! 

Each hath brought back his shield ;— 
Maid, greet thy lover home ! 

Mother, from that proud field, 
lo ! thy son is come ! 

Who murmur'd of the dead ? 

Hush, boding voice ! We know 
That many a shining head 

Lies in its glory low. 

Breathe not those names to-day! 

They shall have their praise ere long. 
And a power all hearts to sway, 

In ever-burning song. 

But now shed flowers, pour wine, 
To hail the conquerors home ! 

Bring wreaths for every shrine — 
lo I they come, they come ! 



NAPLES. 

A SONG OF THE SYREN. 



Then gentle winds arose. 
With many a mingled close, 

Of wild iEolian sound and mountain odour keen ; 
where the clear Baian ocean 
Welters with air-like motion 

Within, above, around its bowers of starry green. 



Shelley, 



Still is the Syren warbling on thy shore. 
Bright City of the Waves !— her magic song 
Still, vt'ith a dreamy sense of ecstasy. 
Fills thy soft summer air : — and while my glance 
Dwells on thy pictured loveliness, that lay 
Floats thus o'er Fancy's ear ; and thus to thee, 
Daughter of Sunshine ! doth the Syren sing. 

" Thine is the glad vi'ave's flashing play, 
Thine is the laugh of the golden day. 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



203 



Tlie golden day, and the glorious night, 
A)id the vine with its chtsters all bathed in light ! 
— Forget, forget, that thou art not free! 

Queen of the sununer sea. 

" Favour'd and crown'd of the earth and sky ! 
Thine are all voices of melody, 
Wandering in moonlight through fane and tower, 
Floating o'er fountain and myrtle bower; 
Hark ! how they melt o'er thy glittering sea ; 

— Forget that thou art not free ! 

" Let the wine flow in thy marble halls! 
Let tlie lute answer thy fountain falls ! 
And deck thy feasts with the myrtle bough, 
And cover with roses thy glowing brow ! 
Clueen of the day and the summer sea. 

Forget that thou art not free !" 



So doth the Syren sing, while sparkling waves 
Dance to her chaunt. But sternly, mournfully, 
O city of the deep! from Sybil grots 
And Roman tombs, the echoes of thy shore 
Take up the cadence of her strain alone. 
Murmuring — " Thou art not free .'" 



THE DEATH-SONG OF ALCESTIS. 



She came forth in her bridal robes array'd. 
And 'midst the graceful statues, round the hall 
Shedding the calm of their celestial mien. 
Stood pale, yet proudly beautiful, as they: 
Flowers in her bosom, and the star-like gleam 
Of jewels trembling from her braided hair. 
And death upon her brow ! — but glorious death ! 
Her own heart's choice, the token and the seal 
Of love, o'ermastering love ; which, till that hour. 
Almost an anguish in the brooding weight 
Of its unutterable tenderness. 
Had burden'd her full soul. But now, oh ! now. 
Its time was come — and from the spirit's depths. 
The passion and the mighty melody 
Of its immortal voice, in triumph broke, 
Like a strong rushing wind ! 

The soft pure air, 
Came floating through that hall ;— the Grecian air. 
Laden with music — flute-notes from the vales. 
Echoes of song — the. last sweet sounds of life; 
And the glad sunshine of the golden clime 
Stream'd, as a royal mantle, round her form, 
The glorified of love ! But she— she look'd 
Only on him for whom 't was joy to die. 
Deep— deepest, holiest joy !— or if a thought 
Of the warm sunlight, and the scented breeze. 
And the sweet Dorian songs, o'erswept the tide 
Of her unswerving soul — 'twas but a thought 
That own'd the summer-loveliness of life 
For Aim a worthy ofi"ering! — So slie stood. 
Wrapt in bright silence, as entranced awhile. 
Till her eye kindled, and her quivering frame 
With the swift breeze of inspiration shook. 
As the pale priestess trembles to the breath 
Of inborn oracles I — then flush'd her cheek, 
And all the triumph, all the agony. 
Borne on the battling waves of love and death. 
All from her woman's heart, in sudden song. 
Burst like a fount of fire. 

" I go, I go! 
Thou Sun, thou golden Sun, I go, 

Far from thy light to dwell ; 
Thou Shalt not find my place below. 
Dim is that world— bright Sun of Greece, farewell ! 

The Laurel and the glorious Rose 

Thy elad beam yet may see. 
But where no purple simimer glows. 
O'er the dark wave /haste from them and thee. 

Yet doth my spirit faint to part? 

— I mourn thee not, O Sun I 
Joy, solemn joy, o'erflows my heart. 
Sing me triumphal songs !— my crown is won ! 



Let not a voice of weeping rise ! 

My heart is girt with power! 
Let the green earth and festal skies 
Laugh as to grace a conqueror's closing hour! 

For thee, for thee, my bosom's lord ! 

Thee, my soul's loved I I die ; 
Thine is the torch of life restored. 
Mine, mine the rapture, mine the victory! 

Now may the boundless love, that lay 

Unfathom'd still before. 
In one consuming burst find way, 
In one bright flood all, all its riches pour ! 

Thouknow'st, thou know'st what love is now.' 

Its glory and its might — 
Are they not written on my brow? 
And will that image ever quit thy sight? 

No! deathless in thy faithful breast, 

There shall my memoi-y keep 
Its own bright altar-place of rest. 
While o'er my grave the cypress-branches weep. 

—Oh ! the glad light !— the light is fair, 

The soft breeze warm and free. 

And rich notes fill the scented air. 

And all are gifts— jnj/ love's last gifts to thee ! 

Take me to thy warm heart once more! 

Night falls— my pulse beats low- 
Seek not to quicken, to restore, 
Joy is in every pang — I go, I go ! 

I feel thy tears, I feel thy breath, 

I meet thy fond look still ; 
Keen is the strife of love and death ; 
Faint and yet fainter grows my bosom's thrill. 

Yet swells the tide of rapture strong. 
Though mists o'ershade mine eye ; 
— Sing, Psean ! sing a conqueror's song! 
For thee, for tliee, my spirit's lord, I die !" 



THE FALL OF D'ASSAS. 

A BALLAD OF FRANCE. 



The Chevalier D'Assas, called the French Decius.tfell 
nobly whilst reconnoitring a wood, near Closterkamp, 
by nisht. He had left his regiment, that of Auvergne, 
at a short distance, and was suddenly surrounded by an 
ambuscade of the enemy, who threatened him with in- 
stant death if he made the least sign of their vicinity. 
With their bayonets at his breast, he raised his voice, 
and calling aloud " A moi, Avergne ! ce sont les enne- 
mis 1" fell, pierced with mortal blows. 



Alone through gloomy forest shades 

A soldier went by night; 
No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades. 

No star shed guiding light. 

Yet on his vigil's midnight round. 

The youth all cheerly pass'd ; 
Uncheck'd by aught of boding sound 

That mutter'd in the blast. 

Where were his thoughts that lonely hour? 

— In his far home, perchance ; 
His father's hall, his mother's bower, 

'Midst the gay vines of France : 

Wandering from battles lost and won. 

To hear and bless again 
The rolling of the wild Garonne, 

Or murmur of the Seine. 

— Hush! Hark! — did stealing steps go by? 

Came not faint whispers near? 
No ! the wild wind hath many a sigh, 

Amidst the foliage sere. 



204 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Hark, yet again !— and from his hand. 
What grasp hath wrench'd the blade ? 

— Oh ! single 'midst a hostile band, 
Young soldier ! thou'rt betray 'd ! 

" Silence !" in under-tones they cry — 

" No whisper — not a breath ! 
The sound that warns thy comrades nigh 

Shall sentence thee to death." 

—Still, at the bayonet's point he stood. 
And strong to meet the blow ; 

And shouted, 'midst his rushing blood, 
" Arm, arm, Auvergne ! the foe !" 

The stir, the tramp, the bugle-call— 
He heard their tumults grow; 

And sent his dying voice through all— 
"Auvergne, Auvergne! the foe!" 



BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR, 

AT CAEN, IN NORMANDY. — 1087. 



"At the day appointed for the king's interment, Prince 
Henry, his third son, the Norman prelates, and a multi- 
tude of clergy and people, assembled in the Church of 
St. Stephen, which the Conqueror had founded. The 
mass had been performed, the corse was placed on the 
bier, and the Bishop of Evreux had pronounced the 
panegyric on the deceased, when a voice from the crowd 
e.xclaimed,— ' He whom you have praised, was a robber. 
The very land on which you stand is mine. By violence 
he took it from my father; and, in the name of God, 1 
forbid you to bury him in it.' The speaker was Asce- 
line Fitz Arthur, who had often, but fruitlessly, sought 
reparation from the justice of William. After some de- 
bate, the prelates called him to them, paid him sixty shil- 
lings for the grave, and promised that he should receive 
the full value of his land. The ceremony was then con- 
tinued, and the body of the king deposited in a coffin of 
stone." Lingard, Vol. II. p. 98. 



Lowly upon his bier 

The royal Conqueror lay ; 
Baron and chief stood near, 

Silent in war-array. 

Down the long minster's aisle 
Crowds mutely gazing stream'd. 

Altar and tomb the while 
Through mists of incense gleam'd. 

And by the torches' blaze. 

The stately priest had said 
High words of power and praise 

To the glory of the dead. 

They lower'd him, with the sound 

Of requiems, to repose ; 
When from the throngs around 

A solemn voice arose : — 

" Forbear ! forbear I" it cried, 
" In the holiest name, forbear! 

He hath conquer'd regions wide. 
But he shall not slumber there ! 

"By the violated hearth 

Which made way for yon proud shrine ; 
By the harvests which this earth 

Hath borne for me and mine ; 

" By the house e'en here o'erthrovyn, 
On my brethren's native spot ; 

Hence I with his dark renown, 
Cumber our birth-place not ! 

"Will my sire's unransom'd field. 
O'er which your censers wave, 

To the buried spoiler yield 
Soft slumbers in the grave ? 



" The tree before him fell. 

Which we cherish'd many a year, 
But its deep root yet shall swell, 

And heave against his bier. 

" The land that I have till'd 

Hath yet its brooding breast 
With my home's white ashes fill'd. 

And it shall not give him rest ! 

"Each pillar's massy bed 

Hath been wet by weeping eyes — 
Away I bestow your dead 

Where no wrong against him cries." 

Shame glow'd on each dark face 

Of those proud and steel-girt men, 
And they bought with gold a place 
• For their leader's dust e'en then. 

A little earth for him 

Whose banner flew so far! 
And a peasant's tale could dim 

The name, a nation's star ! 

0?!e deep voice thus arose 

From a heart which wrongs had riven. 
Oh ! who shall number those 

That were but heard in heaven ? 



CHORUS. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 



(In the scene where the dying Alcestis has bid farewell 
to her husband and children.) 

(ATTENDANTS OF ALCESTIS.) 

Peace, mourners, peace ! 
Be hush'd, be silent, in this hour of dread ! 

Our cries would but increase 
The sufferer's pangs ; let tears unheard be shed. 

Cease, voice of weeping, cease ! 

Sustain, O friend ' 

Upon thy faithful breast. 
The head that sinks, with mortal pain opprest! 

And thou, assistance lend 

To close the languid eye. 
Still beautiful, in life's last agony. 

Alas ! how long a strife ! 
What anguish struggles in the parting breath, 

Ere yet immortal life 

Be won by death ! 
Death ! Death I thy work complete ! 
Let thy sad hour be fleet. 
Speed, in thy mercy, the releasing sigh ! 

No more keen pangs impart 

To her, the high in heart. 
The adored Alcestis, worthy ne'er to die. 

(ATTENDANTS OF ADMETUS.) 

'Tis not enough, oh ! no ! 
To hide the scene of anguish from his eyes ; 

Still must our silent band 

Around him watchful stand. 
And on the mourner ceaseless care bestow. 
That his ear catch not grief's funereal cries. 

Yet, yet hope is not dead. 

All is not lost below. 
While yet the gods have pity on our woe. 

Oft when all joy is fled. 

Heaven lends support to those 
Who on its care in pious hope repose. 

Then to the blessed skies 
Let our submissive prayers in chorus rise. 

Pray ! pray ! pray ! 
What other task have mortals, born to tears, 
Whom fate controls, with adamantine sway ? 

O ruler of the spheres I 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



205 



Jove! Jove! enthroned immortally on liigli, 

Our supplication hear ! 

Nor plunge in bitterest woes, 
Him, who nor footstep moves, nor lifts his eye, 

But as a child, which only knows 

Its father to revere. 



SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. 
I. 



NEAR THEE, STILL NEAR THEE !* 



Near thee, still near thee !— o'er thy path-way 

gliding. 
Unseen I pass thee with the wind's low sigh ; 
Life's veil enfolds thee still, our eyes dividing, 
Yet viewless love floats round thee silently ! 

Not 'midst the festal throng, 

In halls of mirth and song; 

But when thy thoughts are deepest, 

When holy tears thou weepest. 

Know then that love is nigh ! 

When the night's whisper o'er thy harp-strings 

creeping. 
Or the sea-music on the sounding shore. 
Or breezy anthems through the forest sweeping, 
Shall move thy trembling spirit to adore ; 

When every thought and prayer 
We loved to breathe and share, 
On thy full heart returning. 
Shall wake its voiceless yearning ; 

Then feel me near once more ! 

Near thee, still near thee!— trust thy soul's deep 

dreaming! 
— Oh ! love is not an earthly Rose to die ! 
Ev'n when I soar where fiery stars are beaming. 
Thine image wanders with me through the sky. 

The fields of air are free, 
Yet lonely, wanting thee ; 
But when thy chains are falling. 
When heaven its own is calling. 

Know then, thy guide is nigh ! 



THE SISTERS.+ 

A BALLAD. 



" I go, sweet sister ; yet, my heart would linger 
with thee fain, 

And unto every parting gift some deep remem- 
brance chain ; 

Take then the braid of Eastern pearls which once 
I loved to wear. 

And with it bind for festal scenes the dark waves 
of thy hair ! 

Its pale pure brightness will beseem those raven 
tresses well. 

And I shall need such pomp no more in my lone 
convent cell." 

" Oh speak not thus, my Leonor ! why part from 

kindred love ? 
Through festive scenes, when thou art gone — my 

steps no more shall move ! 
How could I bear a lonely heart amid a reckless 

throng? 
I should but miss earth's dearest voice in every 

tone of song ; 



* This piece has been set to iniisic nf most impressive beauty by 
John Lodge, Esq., for whose compositions several, of the author's 
songs were written. 

tThis ballad was composed for a kind of dramatic recitative, 
relieved by music. It waji thus performed by two graceful and 
highly accomplished sisters. 



Keep, keep the braid of Eastern pearls, or let me 

proudly twine 
Its wreath once more around that brow, that 

queenly brow of thine." 

" Oh wouldst thou strive a wounded bird from 

shelter to detain"? 
Or wouldst thou call a spirit freed, to weary life 

again ? 
Sweet sister, take the golden cross that I have 

worn so long. 
And bathed with many a burning tear for secret 

woe and wrong. 
It could not still my beating heart ! but may it be 

a sign 
Of peace and hope, my gentle one ! when meekly 

press'd to thine !" 

" Take back, take back the cross of gold, our 

mother's gift to thee, 
It would but of this parting hour, a bitter token be; 
With funeral splendour to mine eye, it would but 

sadly shine. 
And tell of early treasures lost, of joy no longer 

mine ! 
Oh sister ! if thy heart be thus with buried grief 

oppress'd. 
Where wouldst thou pour it forth so well, as on 

my faithful breast ?" 

" Urge me no more ! a blight hath fallen upon my 

summer years ! 
I should but darken thy young life with fruitless 

pangs and fears ; 
But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it for 

my sake. 
And sometimes, from its silvery strings one tone 

of memory wake ! 
Sing to those chords by starlight's gleam our own 

sweet vesper hymn. 
And think that I too chant it then, far in my 

cloister dim." 

"Yes, I will take the silvery lute— and I will sing 

to thee 
A song we heard in childhood's days, ev'n from 

our father's knee. 
Oh sister ! sister ! are these notes amid forgotten 

things t 
Do they not linger as in love, on the familiar 

strings? 
Seems not our sainted mother's voice to murmur 

in the strain ? 
Kind sister ! gentlest Leonor ! say, shall it plead in 

vain? 

SONG. 

"Leave us not, leave us not! 

Say not adieu ! 
Have we not been to thee 

Tender and true ? 

" Take not thy sunny smile 

Far from our hearth I 
With that sweet light will fade 

Summer and mirth. 

Leave us not, leave us not I 

Can thy heart roam ? 
Wilt thou not pine to hear 

Voices from home ? 

" Too sad our love would be, 

If thou wert gone ! 
Turn to us, leave us not! 

Thou art our own !" 

" Oh sister, hush that thrilling lute, oh cease that 

haunting lay. 
Too deeply pierce those wild sweet notes ; yet, yet 

I cannot stay. 
For wearv— vi'eary is my heart ! I hear a whisper'd 

call 
In every breeze that stirs the leaf and bids the 

blossom fall. 
I cannot breathe in freedom here, my spirit pines 

to dwell 
Where the world's voice can reach no more !— oh 

calm thee 1 Fare thee well I" 



206 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. 
II. 



oh! droop THon not! 



They sin who tell us love can die. 

With life all other passions fly j 

All others are but vanity. 

In heaven ambition cannot dwell, 

Nor avarice in the vaults of hell. 

Earthly these passions, as of earth — 

They perish where they drew their birth. 

But love is indestructible I 

Its holy flame for ever burneth : 

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. 



Oh ! droop thou not, my gentle earthly love ! 

Mine still to be! 
I bore through death, to brighter lands above, 

My thoughts of thee. 

Yes! the deep memory of our holy tears, 

Our mingled prayer. 
Our suffering love, through long devoted years, 

Went with me there. 

It was not vain, the hallow'd and the tried- 
It was not vain ! 

Still, though unseen, still hovering at thy side, 
I watch again ! 

From our own paths, our love's attesting bowers, 

I am not gone; 
In the deep calm of midnight's whispering hours, 

Thou art not lone: 

Not lone, when by the haunted stream thou weepest, 

That stream, whose tone 
Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest, 

We two have known : 

Not lone, when mourn fully some strain awaking 

Of days long past. 
From thy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking, 

Silent and fast: 

Not lone, when upwards, in fond visions turning 

Thy dreamy glance, 
Thou seek'st my home, where solemn stars are 
burning. 

O'er night's expanse. 

My home is near thee, loved one ! and around thee. 

Where'er thou art; 
Tho' still mortality's thick cloud hath bound thee, 

Doubt not thy heart ! 

Hear its low voice, nor deem thyself forsaken — 

Let faith be given 
To the still tones which oft our being vsraken — 

They are of heaven ! 



THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO. 



Suggested by a beautiful sketch, the design of the 
younger Westmacott. It represents Sappho sitting on a 
rock above the sea, with her lyre cast at her feet. There 
is a desolate grace about the whole figure, which seems 
penetrated with the feeling of utter abandonment. 



Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea ! 

My dirge is in thy moan : 
My spirit finds response in thee. 
To its own ceaseless cry — " Alone, alone !" 

Yet send me back one other word, 

Ye tones that never cease ! 
Oh ! let your secret caves be stirr'd. 
And say; dark waters 1 will ye give me peace? 



Away! my weary soul hath sought 

In vain one echoing sigh. 
One answer to consuming thought 
In human^hearts— and will the ivave reply? 

Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea ! 

Sound in thy scorn and pride ! 
I ask not, alien world, from thee. 
What my own kindred earth hath still denied. 

And yet I loved that earth so well. 

With all its lovely things ! 
— Was it for this the death-wind fell 
On my rich lyre, and quench'd its living strings? 

— Let them lie silent at my feet I 

Since broken even as they. 
The heart whose music made them sweet, 
Hath pour'd on desert-sands its wealth away. 

Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name. 

The laurel-wreath is mine — 
— With a lone heart, a weary frame — 
O restless deep ! I come to make them thine ! 

Give to that crown, that burning crown. 

Place in thy darkest hold ! 
Bury my anguish, my renown, 
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold. 

Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest, 

Thou hast thy love, thy home ; 
They wait thee in the quiet nest, 
And I, th' unsought, unwatch'd-for— I too come ! 

I, with this winged nature fraught, 

These visions wildly free. 
This boundless love, this fiery thought — 
• — Alone I come— oh ! give me peace, dark sea ! 



MIGNON'S SONG. 

TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE. 



B'lignon, a young and enthusiastic girl, (the character 
in one of Goethe's romances, from which Sir Walter 
Scott's Fenella is partially imitated,) has been stolen 
away, in early childhood, from Italy. Her vague recol- 
lections of that land, and of her early home, with its 
graceful sculptures and pictured saloons, are perpetually 
haunting her, and at times break forth into the following 
song. The original has been set to e.xquisite music, by 
Zelter, the friend of Goethe. 



Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhn ? 



Know'st thou the land where bloom the Citron 

bowers. 
Where the gold-orange lights the dusky grove ? 
High waves the laurel there, the myrtle flowers, 
And thro' a still blue heaven the sweet winds rove. 
Know'st thou it well? 

—There, there, with thee 
O friend, O loved one ! fain my steps would flee. 

Know'st thou the dwelling? — there the pillars rise, 
Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow; 
And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes 
To say — " Poor child ! what thus hath wrought thee 

woe ?" 
Know'st thou it well? 

There, there with thee, 
O my protector ! homewards might I flee! 

Know'st thou the mountain?— high its bridge is 

hung. 
Where the mule seeks thro' mist and cloud his way; 
There lurk the dragon-race, deep caves among, 
O'er beetling rocks there foams the torrent spray. 
Know'st thou it well ? 

With thee, with thee. 
There lies my path, O father ! let us flee ! 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 207 


A SONG OF THE ROSE. 


DIRGE. 


Cosi fior diverrai die non soggiace 


Where shall we make her grave 7 


All 'acqua, al gelo, al vento ed alio schernOj 


— Oh ! where the wild-flowers wave 


D' una slagion volubile e fugace j 


In the free air! 


E a piu lido Cultor posto in governo, 


Where Shower and singing-bird 


Unir polrai nella franquilla pace, 


'Midst the young leaves are heard — 


Ad eterua Eellezza odore eterno. 


There— lay her there ! 


Pittro Mctastasio, 






Harsh was the world to her — 




Now may sleep minister 


Rose ! what dost thou here ? 


Balm for each ill : 


Bridal, royal rose? 


Low on sweet nature's breast, 


How, 'midst grief and fear, 


Let the meek heart find rest, 


Canst thou thus disclose 


Deep, deep and still! 


That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf 




glows ? 


Murmur, glad waters, by ! 




Faint gales, with happy sigh, 


Rose ! too mnch array'd 


Come wandering o'er 


For triumphal hours, 


That green and mossy bed. 


Look'st thou through the shade 


Where, on a gentle head. 


Of these mortal bowers, 


Storms beat no more! 


Not to disturb my soul, thou crown'd one of all 
flowers ! 


What though for her in vain 


Falls now the bright spring-rain, 




Plays the soft wind ; 


As an eagle soaring 


Yet still, from where she lies. 


Through a sunny sky, 


Should blessed breathings rise, 


As a clarion pouring 


Gracious and kind. 


Notes of victory, 




So dost thou kindle thoughts, for earthly life too 


Therefore let song and dew 


high. 


Thence, in the heart renew 




Life's vernal glow ! 


Thoughts of rapture, flushing 


And, o'er that hofy earth 


Youthful poet's cheek ; 


Scents of the violet's birth . 


Thoughts of glory, rushing 


Still come and go ! 


Forth in song to break. 




But finding the spring-tide of rapid song too weak. 


Oh ! then where wild-flowers wave. 




Make ye her mossy grave 


Yet, oh ! festal rose, 
I have seen thee lying 

In thy bright repose 
Pillow'd with the dying. 


In the free air! 
Where shower and singing-bird 
'Midst the young leaves are heard — 

There, lay her there 1 


IViy crimson by the lip whence life's quick blood 




was flying. 






THE MUFFLED DRUM.* 


Summer, hope, and love 
O'er that bed of pain, 

Met in thee, yet wove 
Too, too frail a chain 




The mufiled drum was heard 
In the Pyrenees by night. 


In its embracing links the lovely to detain. 


With a dull deep rolling sound 
Which told the hamlets round 




Of a soldier's burial rite. 


Smil'st thou, gorgeous flower? 




— Oh ! within the spells 


But it told them not how dear 


Of thy beauty's power, 


In a home beyond the main. 


Sometliing dimly dwells, 


Was the warrior youth laid low that hour, 


At variance with a world of sorrows and fare- 


By a mountain stream of Spain. 


wells. 






The oaks of England waved 


All the soul forth flowing 


O'er the slumbers of his race. 


In that rich perfume. 


But a pine of the Ronceval made moan 


All the proud life glowing 


Above his last lone place : 


In that radiant bloom, — 




Have they no place but here, beneath th' o'ersha- 


When the muffled drum was heard 


dowing tomb ? 


In the Pyrenees by night. 




With a duil deep rolling sound 




Which call'd strange echoes round 


Crovra'st thou but the daughters 


To the soldier's burial rite. 


Of our tearful race ? 




— Heaven's own purest waters 


Brief was the sorrowing there. 


Well might wear the trace 


By the stream from battle red, 


Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace. 


And tossing on its wave the plumes 




Of many a stately head ; 


Will that clime enfold thee 




With immortal air ? 


But a mother— soon to die. 


Shall we not behold thee 


And a sister— long to weep. 


Bright and deathless there? 


Ev'n then were breathing prayer for him, 


In spirit-lustre cloth'd, transcendantly more fair ? 


In that home beyond the deep : 




While the muffled drum was heard 


Yes ! my fancy sees thee 


In the Pyrenees by night. 


In that light disclose. 


With a dull deep rolling sound. 


And its dream thus frees thee 


And the dark pines mourn'd around. 


From the mist of woes. 


O'er the soldier's burial rite. 


Darkening thine earthly bowers, bridal, royal 




rose! 


* Set to beautiful music by Joho Lodge, Esq. 



208 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



THE 
WANDERER AND THE NIGHT-FLOWERS. 



Call back your odours, lovely flowers, 
From the night-winds call them back. 

And fold your leaves till the laughing hours 
Come forth in the sunbeam's track. 

The lark lies couch'd in her grassy nest, 

And the honey-bee is gone. 
And all bright things are away to rest, 

Why watch ye here alone ? 

Is not your world a mournful one, 
When your sisters close their eyes, 

And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone 
Of song in the starry skies ? 

Take ye no joy in the day-spring's birth. 
When it kindles the sparks of dew ? 

And the thousand strains of the forest's mirth, 
Shall they gladden all but you ? 

Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes out 

On the sunny turf to play. 
And the woodland child with a fairy shout 

Goes dancing on its way ! 

"Nay, let our shadowy beauty bloom 

When the stars give quiet light, 
And let us offer our faint perfume 

On the silent shrine of night. 

"Call it not wasted, the scent we lend 
To the breeze, when no step is nigh; 

Oh thus for ever the earth should send 
Her grateful breath on high! 

"And love us as emblems, night's dewy flowers 

Of hopes unto sorrow given, 
That spring through the gloom of the darkest 
hours. 

Looking alone to heaven !" 



ECHO-SONG. 



In thy cavern -hall. 

Echo ! art thou sleeping? 
By the fountain's fall 
Dreamy silence keeping? 
Yet one soft note borne 
From the shepherd's horn, 
Wakes thee, Echo ! into music leaping ! 
— Strange sweet Echo ! into music leaping. 

Then the woods rejoice, 

Then glad sounds are swelling 
Fi'om each sister-voice 
Round thy rocky dwelling; 
And their sweetness fills 
All the hollow hills, 
With a thousand notes, of one life telling! 
— Softly mingled notes, of one life telling. 

Echo I in my heart 

Thus deep thoughts are lying. 
Silent and apart, 
Buried, yet undying. 
Till some gentle tone 
Wakening haply one. 
Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying! 
—Strange sweet Echo ! even like thee replying.* 



NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS. 



Chilbren of night! unfolding meekly, slowly 
To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours, 
When dark-blue heavens look softest and most 

holy. 
And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers ; 

*^ This 50DS is in the possession of Mr. Power. 



To solemn things and deep, 
To spirit-haunted sleep, 
To thoughts, all purified 
From earth, ye seem allied ; 
O dedicated flowers ! 

Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling. 
Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined ; 
Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing, 
Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind. 
— So doth love's dreaming heart 
Dwell from the throng apart, 
And but to shades disclose 
The inmost thought which glows 
With its pure life entwined. 

Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices. 
To no triumphant song your petals thrill. 
But send forth odours with the faint soft voices 
Rising from hidden streams, when all is still. 
So doth lone prayer arise. 
Mingling with secret sighs. 
When grief unfolds, like you, 
Her breast, for heavenly dew 
In silent hours to fill. 



THE SWAN AND THE SKY-LARK. 



Adieu, adieu ! my plaintive anthem fades 
Fast the near meadows, over the still stream, 

Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley -glades. 

Keats. 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire j 

The blue deep thou wingest. 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

Shellty. 



'Midst the long reeds that o'er a Grecian stream 
Unto the faint wind sigh'd melodiously, 
And where the sculpture of a broken shrine 
Sent out, through shadowy grass and thick wild 

flowers. 
Dim alabaster gleams — a lonely Swan 
Warbled his death-chaunt ; and a poet stood 
Listening to that strange music, as it shook 
The lilies on the wave ; and made the pines 
And all the laurels of the haunted shore 
Thrill to its passion. Oh I the tones were sweet, 
Ev'n painfully — as with the sweetness rung 
From parting love ; and to the Poet's thought 
This was their language. 

" Summer, I depart ! 
O light and laughing summer, fare thee well ! 
No song the less thro' thy rich woods will swell. 

For one, one broken heart. 

And fare ye well, young flowers ! 
Ye will not mourn ! ye will shed odour still, 
And wave in glory, colouring every rill. 

Known to my youth's fresh hours. 

And ye, bright founts, that lie 
Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep. 
My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep — 

— Sweet waters ! I must die. 

Will ye not send one tone 
Of sorrow thro' the pines?— one murmur low? 
Shall not the green leaves from your voices know 

That li^your child, am gone? 

No, ever glad and free ! 
Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell, 
Waves, joyous waves, flow on, and fare ye well ! 

Ye will not mourn for me. 

But thou, sweet boon, too late 
Pour'd on my parting breath, vain gift of song! 
Why com'st thou thus, o'ermastering, rich and 
strong, 

In the dark hour of fate ? 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



209 



Only to wake the sighs 
Of echo-voices from their sparry cell ; 
Only to say — " O sunshine and blue skies ! 

O life and love, farewell !" 

Thus flow'd the dealh-chaunt on ; while mournfully 
Low winds and waves made answer, and the tones 
Buried in rocks along the Grecian stream, 
Rocks and dim caverns of old Prophecy, 
Woke to respond : and all the air was fill'd 
With that one sighing sound — " Farewell, Fare- 
well !" 
— Fill'd with t/ta« sound? high in the calm blue 

heaven 
Ev'n then a Sky-lark hung ; soft summer clouds 
Were floating round him, all transpierced with 

light. 
And 'midst that pearly radiance his dark wings 
Quiver'd with song:— such free triumphant song. 
As if tears were not, — as if breaking hearts 
Had not a place below— and tkus that strain 
Spoke to the Poet's ear exultingly. 

" The summer is come ; she hath said, ' Rejoice !' 
The wild woods thrill to her merry voice ; 
Her sweet breath is wandering around, on high; 
—Sing, sing thro' the echoing sky ! 

" There is joy in the mountains ; the bright waves 

leap. 
Like the bounding stag when he breaks from sleep; 
Mirthfully, wildly, they flash along — 

— Let the heavens ring with song ! 

" There is joy in the forests ; the bird of night 
Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight ; 
But mine is the glory to sunshine given — 

Sing, sing thro' the echoing heav'n ! 

" Mine are the wings of the soaring morn. 
Mine are the fresh gales with day-spring born : 
Only young rapture can mount so high — 

— Sing, sing thro' the echoing sky !" 

So those two voices met ; so Joy and Death 
Mingled their accents ; and amidst the rush 
Of many thoughts, the listening Poet cried, 
— " Oh ! thou art mighty, thou a"rt wonderful, 
Mysterious Nature ! Not in thy free range 
Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus 
The dirge-note and the song of festival ; 
But in one heart, one changeful human heart 
— Ay, and within one hour of that strange world— 
Thou call'st their music forth, with all its tones 
To startle and to pierce ! — the dying Swan's, 
And the glad Sky-Lark's— Triumph and Despair 1" 



SONGS OF SPAIN.* 



II. 

THE ZEGRI MAID. 



Tlie Zegris were one of the most illustrious Moorish 
tribes. Their exploits, and feuds with their celebrated 
rivals the Abencerrages, form the subject of many an- 
cient Spanish romances. 



The summer leaves were sighing, 

Around the Zegri maid. 
To her low sad song replying 

As it fill'd the olive shade. 
" Alas ! for her that loveth ^ ' 

Her land's, her kindred's foe! 
Where a Christian Spaniard roveth, 

Should a Zegri's spirit go ? 

"From thy glance, my gentle mother! 

I sink, with shame oppress'd. 
And the dark eye of my brother 

Is an arrow to my breast." 
— Where summer leaves were sighing. 

Thus sang the Zegri maid. 
While the crimson day was dying 

In the whispery olive shade. 

"And for all this heart's wealth wasted, 

This woe, in secret borne. 
This flower of young life blasted. 

Should I win back aught but scorn ? 
By aught but daily dying 

Would my lone truth he repaid?" 
— Where the olive leaves were sighing, 

Thus sang the Zegri maid. 



III. 

THE RIO VERDE SONG. 



The Rio Verde, a small river of Spain, is celebrated 
in the old ballad romances of that country for the fre- 
quent combats on its banks, between Moor and Chris- 
tian. The ballad referring to this stream, in Percy's 
Reliques, 

"Gentle river, gentle river, 
Lo ! thy streams are stain'd with gore," 
will be remembered by many readers. 



No. L 
ANCIENT BATTLE SONG. 



Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again ! 
Let the high word " Castile" go resounding thro' 

Spain ! 
And thou, free Asturias, encamp'd on the height. 
Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of light! 
Wake, wake 1 the old soil where thy children re- 
pose. 
Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes. 
The voices are mighty that swell from the past. 
With Arragon's cry on the shrill mountain-blast ; 
The ancient Sierras give strength to our tread. 
Their pines murmur song where bright blood hath 

been shed. 
—Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again. 
And shout ye " Castile I to the rescue for Spain !" 

* Written for a set of airs, entitled "Peninsular Melodies," 
selected by Colonel Hodges, and published by Messrs. Goulding and 
D'Almaine, who have permitted the reappearance of the words in 
this volume. 

27 



Flow, Rio Verde ! 

In melody flow ; 
Win her that weepeth 

To slumber from woe ; 
Bid thy wave's music 

Roll through her dreams. 
Grief ever loveth 

The kind voice of streams 

Bear her lone spirit 

Afar on the sound. 
Back to her childhood. 

Her life's fairy ground ; 
Pass like the whisper 

Of love that is gone — 
Flow, Rio Verde ! 

Softly flow on ! 

Dark glassy water, 

So crimson'd ot yore ! 
Love, death, and sorrow 

Know thy green shore. 
Thou shouldst have echoes 

For grief's deepest tone— 
— Flow, Rio Verde, 

Softly flow on I 



210 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



IV. 
SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO. 



Seek by the silvery Darro, 

Where jasmine flowers have blown ; 
There hath she left no footsteps? 

— Weep, weep, the maid is gone! 

Seek where our Lady's image 

Smiles o'er the pine-hung steep; 
Hear ye not there her vespers? 

— Weep for the parted, weep! 

Seek in the porch where vine-leaves 

O'ershade her father's head ? 
— Are liis gray hairs left lonely? 

Weep ! her bright soul is fled. 



V. 

SPANISH EVENING HYMN 



Ave ! now let prayer and music 
Meet in love on earth and sea ! 

Now, sweet Mother I may the weary 
Turn from this cold world to thee ! 

From the wide and restless waters 

Hear the sailor's hymn arise! 
From his watch-fire 'midst the mountains, 

Lo ! to thee the shepherd cries ! 

Yet, when thus full hearts find voices, 
If o'erburden'd souls there be. 

Dark and silent in their anguish, 
Aid those captives ! set them free I 

Touch them, every fount unsealing, 
Where the frozen tears lie deep; 

Thou, the Mother of all Sorrows, 
Aid, oh ! aid to pray and weep' 



VI. 

BIRD, THAT ART SINGING ON EBRD'S SIDE! 



Come from Alhambra ! garden and grove 
Now may not shelter beauty or love. 
Blood on the waters, death 'midst the flowers ! 
—Only the spear and the rock are ours. 



VIII. 
THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS. 



We heard thy name, O Mina ! 

Far through our hills it rang ; 
A sound more strong than tempests, 

More keen than armour's clang. 
The peasant left his vintage. 

The shepherd grasp'd the spear — 
— We heard thy name, O Mina ! 

The mountain bands are here. 

As eagles to the day-spring, 

As torrents to the sea. 
From every dark Sierra 

So rush'd our hearts to thee. 
Thy spirit is our banner, 

Thine eye our beacon-sign. 
Thy name our trumpet, Mina ! 

— The mountain bands are thine. 



Bird, that art singing on Ebro's side. 
Where myrtle shadows make dim the tide. 
Doth sorrow dwell 'midst the leaves with thee? 
Doth song avail thy full heart to free ? 
— Bird of the midnight's purple sky ! 
Teach me the spell of thy melody. 

Bird! is it blighted affection's pain. 

Whence the sad sweetness flows thro' thy strain ? 

And is the wound of that arrow still'd. 

When thy lone music the leaves have flU'd? 

— Bird of the midnight's purple sky 1 

Teach me the spell of thy melody. 



VII. 

MOORISH GATHERING SONG. 

ZORZICO.* 



Chains on the cities ! gloom in the air ! 

— Come to the hills! fresh breezes are there. 

Silence and fear in the rich orange bowers ! 

— Come to the rocks where freedom hath towers. 

Come from the Darro ! — changed is its tone ; 
Come whei'e the streams no bondage have known; 
Wildly and proudly foaming they leap. 
Singing of freedom from steep to steep. 



* The Zorzico is an extremely wild and singular antique Moorish 
melody. 



IX. 

MOTHER, OH ! SING ME TO REST. 

A CANCION. 



Mother ! oh, sing me to rest 
As in my bright days departed : 
Sing to thy child, the sick-hearted. 

Songs for a spirit oppress'd. 

Lay this tired head on thy breast ! 
Flowers from the night-dew are closing, 
Pilgrims and mourners reposing — 

— Mother, oh ! sing me to rest ! 

Take back thy bird to its nest ! 
Weary is young life when blighted, 
Heavy this love unrequited ; — 

Mother, oh ! sing me to rest ! 



X. 

THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK 
RONCESVALLES. 



There are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles, 
There are echoes on Biscay's wild shore ; 

There are murmurs — but not of the torrent. 
Nor the wind, nor the pine-forest's roar. 

'Tis a day of the spear and the banner, 

Of armings and hurried farewells; 
Rise, rise on your mountains, ye Spaniards! 

Or start from your old battle-dells. 

There are streams of unconquer'd Asturias, 
That have roll'd with your fathers' free blood; 

Oh! leave on the graves of the mighty. 
Proud marks where their children have stood ! 



THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND. 



Hark ! from the dim church-tower. 
The deep slow curfew's chime ! 

—A heavy sound unto hall and bower. 
In England's olden time ! 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



211 



Sadly 'twas heard by him who came 
From the fields of his toil at night. 

And who might not see his own hearth-flame 
In his children's eyes make light. 

Sternly and sadly heard, 

As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow. 
Which had cheered the board with the mirthful 
word, 

And the red wine's foaming flow ! 
Until that sullen boding knell 

Flung out from every fane. 
On harp and lip, and spirit, fell. 

With a weight and with a chain. 

Woe for the pilgrim then. 

In the wild deer's forest far ! 
No cottage-lamp, to the haunts of men, 

Might guide him, as a star. 
And woe for him whose wakeful soul, 

With lone aspirings fiU'd, 
Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll, 

While the sounds of earth were still'd ! 

And yet a deeper woe 

For the watcher by the bed. 
Where the fondly loved in pain lay low, 

In pain and sleepless dread ! 
For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep 

By the dying babe, her place. 
And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep. 

Yet not behold its face I 

Darkness in chieftain's hall ! 

Darkness in peasant's cot ! 
While freedom, under that shadowy pall. 

Sat mourning o'er her lot. 
Oh ! the fireside's peace we well may prize ! 

For blood hath flow'd like rain, 
Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries 

Of England's homes again. 

Heap the yule -fagots high. 

Till the"red light fills the room ! 
It is home's own hour when the stormy sky 

Grows thick with evening-gloom. 
Gather ye round the holy hearth, 

And by its gladdening blaze. 
Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, 

With a thought of the olden days ! 



THE CALL TO BATTLE. 



Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated. 

Byron. 

The vesper-bell, from church and tower. 

Had sent its dying sound ; 
And the household, in the hush of eve, 

Were met, their porch around. 

A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a sud- 
den trumpet's power — 

"We rise on all our hills! come forth ! 'tis thy 
country's gathering hour — 

There's a gleam of spears by every stream, in each 
old battle-dell— 

Come forth, young Juan! bid thy home a brief and 
proud farewell !" 

Then the father gave his son the sword, 
Which a hundred fights had seen — 

" Away ! and bear it back, my boy I 
All that it still hath been !" 

"Haste, haste! the hunters of the foe are up, and 

who shall stand 
The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant 

land? 



Our chase shall sound through each defile where 

swept the clarion's blast. 
With the flying footsteps of the Moor in stormy 

ages past." 

Then the mother kiss'd her son, with tears 

That o'er his dark locks fell: 
" I bless, I bless thee o'er and o'er. 

Yet I stay thee not—Farewell !" 

" One moment ! but one moment give to partin" 

thought or word! ° 

It is no time for woman's tears when manhood's 

heart is stirr'd. 
Bear but the memory of thy love about thee in the 

fight. 
To breathe upon th' avenging sword a spell of 

keener might." 

And a maiden's fond adieu was heard, 
Though deep, yet brief and low: 

" In the vigil, in the conflict, love ! 
My prayer shall with thee go !" 

"Come forth! come as the torrent comes when 

the winter's chain is burst ! 
So rushes on the land's revenge, in night and 

silence nursed— 
The night is past, the silence o'er— on all our hills 

we rise — 
We wait thee, youth ! sleep, dream no more! the 

voice of battle cries." 

There were sad hearts in a darken'd home. 
When the brave had left their bower ; 

But the strength of prayer and sacrifice 
Was with them in that hour. 



SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.* 



I. 

AND I TOO IN ARCADIA. 



A celebrated picture of Poussin represents a band of 
shepherd youths and maidens suddenly checked in their 
wanderings, and affected with various emotions by the 
sight of a tomb which bears this inscription — " Et in 
Jircadia ego." 



They have wander'd in their glee 

With the butterfly and bee ; 

They have climb'd o'er heathery swells. 

They have wound thro' forest dells ; 

Mountain moss hath felt their tread. 

Woodland streams their way have led ; 

Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks, 

Nurslings of the loneliest brooks. 

Unto tliein have yielded up 

Fragrant bell and starry cup: 

Chaplets are on every brow — 

—What hath stay'd the wanderers now? 

Lo ! a gray and rustic tomb, 

Bower'd amidst the rich wood-gloom ; 

Whence these words their stricken spirits melt, 

— " I too. Shepherds ! in Arcadia dwelt." 

There is many a summer sound 

That pale sepulchre around ; 

Thro' the shade young birds are glancing, 

Insect-wings in sun-streaks dancing ; 

Glimpses of blue festal skies 

Pouring in whefi soft winds rise; 

Violets o'er the turf below 

Shedding out their warmest glow ; 

Yet a spirit not its own 

O'er the greenwood now is thrown ! 



* Of these songs, the ones entitled " Ye are not miss'd, fair Flow- 
ers," the " W^niow Song," " Leave me not yet," and the "Orange 
Bough," are in the possession of Mr. Willis, by whom they will be 
published with music. 



212 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Something of an under-note 
Thro' its music seems to float, 
Something of a stillness gray 
Creeps across the laughing day : 
Something, dimly from those old words felt, 
— "I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt." 

Was some gentle kindred maid 

In that grave with dirges laid ? 

Some fair creature, with the tone 

Of whose voice a joy is gone. 

Leaving melody and mirth 

Poorer on this alter'd earth? 

Is it thus? that so they stand. 

Dropping flowers from every hand ? 

Flowers, and lyres, and gather'd store 

Of red wild-fruit prized no more ? 

— No! from that bright band of morn 

Not one link hath yet been torn ; 

'Tis the shadow of the tomb 

Falling o'er the summer-bloom. 

O'er the flush of love and life 

Passing with a sudden strife ; 

'Tis the low prophetic breath 

Murmuring from that house of death, 

Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt, 

" I too, Shepherds ! in Arcadia dwelt." 



11. 
THE WANDERING WIND. 



The Wind, the wandering Wind 

Of the golden summer eves — 
Whence is the thrilling magic 

Of its tones amongst the leaves? 
Oh ! is it from the waters. 

Or from the long, tall grass ? 
Or is it from the hollow rocks 

Thro' which its breathings pass ? 

Or is it from the voices 

Of all in one combined. 
That it wins the tone of mastery ? 

The Wind, the wandering Wind ! 
No, no ! the strange sweet accents 

That with it come and go. 
They are not from the osiers. 

Nor the fir-trees whispering low. 

They are not of the waters. 

Nor of the cavern'd hill : 
'Tis the human love within us 

That gives them power to thrill. 
They touch the links of memory 

Around our spirits twined, 
And we start, and weep, and tremble. 

To the Wind, the wandering Wind ! 



III. 

YE ARE NOT MISS'D, FAIR FLOWERS. 



Ye are not miss'd, fair flowers, that late were 
spreading 

The summer's glov/ by fount and breezy grot ; 
There falls the dew, its fairy favours shedding. 

The leaves dance on, the young birds miss you not. 

Still plays the sparkle o'er the rippling water, 
O lilv ! whence thy cup of pearl is gone; 

The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest daugh- 
ter. 
There is no sorrow in the wind's low tone. 

And thou, meek hyacinth! afar is roving 
The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss'd ; 

Cradled ye were, fair flowers ! 'midst all things 
loving, 
A joy to all— yet, yet, ye are not miss'd! 



Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness. 

And the winds fragrance, wandering where they 

list! 

—Oh ! it were breathing words too deep in sadness, 

To say — earth's human flowers not more are 

miss'd. 



rv. 

WILLOW-SONG. 



Willow ! in thy breezy moan, 

I can hear a deeper tone; 

Thro' thy leaves come whispering low 

Faint sweet sounds of long ago. 

Willow, sighing Willow ! 

Many a mournful tale of old 
Heart-sick love to thee hath told, 
Gathering from thy golden bough 
Leaves to cool his burning brow. 

Willow, sighing Willow ! 

Many a swan-like song to thee 
Hath been sung, thou gentle tree! 
Many a lute its last lament 
Down thy moonlight stream hath sent : 
Willow, sighing Willow ! 

Therefore, wave and murmur on I 
Sigh for sweet affections gone, 
And for tuneful voices fled. 
And for love, whose heart hath bled. 
Ever, Willow, Willow ! 



V. 

LEAVE ME NOT YET! 



Leave me not yet— through rosy skies from far. 
But now the song-birds to their nests return ; 

The c|uivering image of the first pale star 
On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn : 

Leave me not yet ! 

Not yet !— oh hark ! low tones from hidden streams, 
Piercing the shivery leaves, ev'n now arise ; 

Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams. 
They are of vesper's hymns and harmonies : 
Leave me not yet I 

My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear 
love! 
By day shut up in their own still recess, 
They wait for dews on earth, for stars above. 
Then to breathe out their soul of tenderness : 
Leave me not yet ! 



VI. 

THE ORANGE-BOUGH. 



Oh! bring me one sweet Orange-bough, 
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow ; 
One bough, with pearly blossoms drest, 
And bind it. Mother ! on my breast ! 

Go, seek the grove along the shore. 
Whose odours I must breathe no more ; 
The grove where every scented tree 
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea. 

Oh ! Love's fond sighs, and, fervent prayer, 
And wild farewell, are lingering there ; 
Each leafs light whisper hath a tone, 
My faint heart, ev'n in death, would own. 

Then bear me thence one bough, to shed 
Life's parting sweetness round my head, 
And bind it. Mother ! on my breast, 
When I am laid in lonely rest. 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



213 



VIL 
THE STREAM SET FREE. 



Flow on, rejoice, make music, 

Bright living stream set free 1 
The troubled haunts of care and strife 

Were not for thee ! 

The woodland is thy country, 

Thou art all its own again ; 
The wild birds are thy kindred race, 

That fear no chain. 

Flow on, rejoice, make music 

Unto the glistening leaves ! 
Thou, the beloved of balmy winds 

And golden eves. 

Once more the holy starlight 

Sleeps cahn upon thy breast. 
Whose brightness bears no token more 

Of man's unrest. 

Flow, and let free-born music 

Flow with thy-wavy line, 
While the stock-dove's lingering loving voice 

Comes blent with thine. 

And the green reeds qljivering o'er thee, 

Strings of the forest-lyre, 
All flU'd with answering spirit-sounds, 

In joy respire. 

Yet 'midst thy song's glad changes, 

Oh! keep one pitying tone 
For gentle hearts, that bear to thee 

Their sadness lone. 

One sound, of all the deepest, 

To bring, like healing dew, 
A sense that nature ne'er forsakes 

The meek and true. 

Then, then, rejoice, make music. 
Thou stream, thou glad and free! 

The shadows of all glorious flowers 
Be set in thee. 



VIII. 
THE SUMMER'S CALL. 



Come away ! the sunny hours 
Woo thee far to founts and bowers! 
O'er the very waters now. 

In their play. 
Flowers are shedding beauty's glow — 

Come away ! 
Where the lily's tender gleam 
Quivers on the glancing stream — 

Come away ! 

All the air is fill'd with sound, 
Soft, and sultry, and profound ; 
Murmurs through the shadowy grass 

Lightly stray ; 
Faint winds whisper as they pass — 

Come away ! 
Where the bee's deep music swells 
From the trembling fox-glove bells — 

Come away ! 

In the skies the sapphire blue 
Now hath won its richest hue ; 
In the woods the breath of song 

Night and day 
Floats with leafy scents along — 

Come away ! 
Where the boughs with dewy glortm 
Darken each thick bed of bloom — 

Come away I 



In the deep heart of the rose 
Now the crimson love-hue glows ; 
Now the glow-worm's lamp by night 

Sheds a ray. 
Dreamy, starry, greenly bright- 
Come away ! 
Where the fairy cup-moss lies, 
With the wild-wood strawberries. 
Come away ! 

Now each tree by summer crown'd. 
Sheds its own rich twilight round ; 
Glancing there from sun to shade. 

Bright wings play ; 
There the deer its couch hath made — 

Come away ! 
Where the smooth leaves of the lime 
Glisten in their honey-time — 

Comeaway — away ! 



GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE. 



That voice re-measures 
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures 
The things of nature utter J birds or trees, 
Or where the tall grass 'mid the heath-plant waves. 
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. 

Coleridse. 



I HEARD a song upon the wandering wind, 

A song of many tones— though one full soul 

Breathed through them all imploringly ; and made 

All nature as they pass'd, all quivering leaves 

And low responsive reeds and waters thrill. 

As with the consciousness of human prayer. 

— At times the passion-kindled melody 

Might seem to gush from Sappho's fervent heart. 

Over the wild sea-wave; — at times the strain 

Flow'd with more plaintive sweetness, as if born 

Of Petrarch's voice, beside the lone Vaucluse; 

And sometimes, with its melancholy swell, 

A graver sound was mingled, a deep note 

Of Tasso's holy lyre ;— yet still the tones 

Were of a suppliant ;— " Leave me not .'" was still 

The burden of their music; and I knew 

The lay which Genius, in its loneliness. 

Its own still world amidst th' o'erpeopled world. 

Hath ever breathed to Love. 

They crown me with the glistening crown. 
Borne from a deathless tree ; 
I hear the pealing music of renown — 
O Love ! forsake me not ! 
Mine were a lone dark lot. 
Bereft of thee ! 

They tell me that my soul can throw 
A glory o'er the earth ; 
From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow ! 
Shed by thy gentle eyes 
It gives to flower and skies, 
A bright new birth! 

Thence gleams the path of morning. 
Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone ! 
Thence to its heart of hearts, the rose is burning 
With lustre not its own ! 
Thence every wood-recess 
Is fill'd with loveliness. 
Each bower, to ringdoves and dim violets known, 

I see all beauty by the ray 
That streanieth from thy smile ; 
Oh ! bear it, bear it not away ! 

Can that sweet light beguile ? 
Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems. 
To linger long by earthly streams ; 
I clasp it with th' alloy 
Of fear 'midst quivering joy. 
Yet must I perish if the gift depart — 
Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart ! 



214 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



The music from my lyre 
With thy swift step would flee ; 
The world's cold breath would quench the starry 
fire 
In my deep soul— a temple fill'd with thee ! 
Seal'd would the fountains lie, 
The waves of harmony, 
Which thou alone canst free ! 

Like a shrine 'midst rocks forsaken, 

Whence the oracle hath fled ; 
Like a harp which none might waken 

But a mighty master dead ; 
Like the vase of a perfume scatter'd, 

Such would my spirit be ; 
So mute, so void, so shatter'd, 

Bereft of thee ! 

Leave me not. Love ! or if this earth 

Yield not for thee a home. 
If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth 

Send thee a silvery voice that whispers— " Come!" 
Then, with the glory from the rose. 
With the sparkle from the stream. 
With the light thy rainbow-presence throws 
Over the poet's dream ; 
With all th' Elysian hues 
Thy pathway that suffuse. 
With joy, with music, from the fadinsr grove. 
Take me, too, heavenward, on thy wing, sweet 
Love ! 



OH! SKY-LARK FOR THY WING. 



Oh ! Sky-lark, for thy wing! 
Thou bird of joy and light. 
That I might soar and sing 
At heaven's empyreal height ! 
With the heathery hills beneath me. 

Whence the streams in glory spring, 
And the pearly clouds to wreathe me 
Oh sky-lark ! on thy wing ! 

Free, free from earth-born fear, 

I would range the blessed skies. 
Through the bine divinely clear. 
Where the low mists cannot rise ! 
And a thousand joyous measures 

From my chainless heart should sprinn 
Like the bright rain's vernal treasures. 
As I wander'd on thy wing. 

But oh! the silver chords. 

That around the heart are spun. 
From gentle tones and words. 
And kind eyes that make our sun ! 
To some low sweet nest returning 
How soon my love would bring. 
There, there the dews of morning. 
Oh, sky-lark ! on thy wing ! 



MUSIC AT A DEATH-BED. 



" Music ! why tby power employ 
Only for the sons of joy? 
Only for the smiling guests 
At natal, or at nuptial feasts ? 
Rather thy lenient numbers pour 
On those whom secret griefs devour ; 
And with some softly-whisper'd air 
Smooth the brow of dumb despair 1" 

Wartoiif from Euripides. 



Bring music stir the brooding air 

With an ethereal breath ! 
Bring sounds my struggling soul to bear 

Up from the couch of death ! 



A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay, 

Such as the southern breeze 
Might waft, at golden fall of day, 

O'er blue transparent seas I 

Oh no! not such! that lingering spell 

Would lure me back to life. 
When my wean'd heart hath said farewell, 

And pass'd the gates of strife. 

Let not a sigh of human love 

Blend witli the song its tone ! 
Let no disturbing echo move 

One that must die alone ! 

But pour a solemn-breathing strain 

Fill'd with the soul of prayer; 
Let a life's conflict, fear, and pain. 

And trembling hope be there. 

Deeper, yet deeper ! in my thought 

Lies more prevailing sound, 
A harmony intensely fraught 

With pleading more profound. 

A passion unto music given, 

A sweet, yet piercing cry : 
A breaking heart's appeal to heaven, 

A bright faith's victory ! 

Deeper! Oh! may no richer power 

Be in those notes enshrined ! 
Can all which crowds on earth's last hour 

No fuller language find ? 

Away ! and hush the feeble song. 

And let the chord be still'd ! 
Far in another land ere long 

My dream shall be fulfiU'd. 



MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE. 



" I came upon the tomb of Marshal Schwerin — a plain 
quiet cenotaph, erected in the middle of a wide corn- 
field, on the very spot where he closed a long, faithful, 
and glorious career in arms. He fell here at eighty 
years of age, at the head of his own regiment, the stand- 
ard of it waving in his hand. His seat was in the 
leathern saddle — his foot in the iron stirrup — his fingers 
reined the young war horse to the last."— JVotes and 
Reflections during a Ramble in Germany. 



Thou didst fall in the field with thy silver hair. 

And a banner in thy hand ; 
Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there, 

By a proudly mournful band. 

In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle's blast, 

Thy long bright years had sped ; 
And a warrior's bier was thine at last. 

When the snows had crown'd thy head. 

Many had fallen by thy side, old chief! 

Brothers and friends, perchance ; 
But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf. 

And light vs'as in thy glance. 

The soldier's heart at thy step leap'd high, 
And thy voice the war-horse knew ; 

And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh, 
Wert thou, the bold and true. 

Now mayest thou slumber — thy work is done — 

Thou of the well-worn sword ! 
From the stormy fight in thy fame thou'rt gone, 

But not to the festal board. 

The corn-sheaves whisper thy grave around. 

Where fiery blood hath flow'd : — 
Oh ! lover of battle and trumpet-sound! 

Thou art couch'd in a still abode ! 

A quiet home from the noonday's glare, 
And the breath of the wintry blast- 
Didst thou toil thro' the days of thy silvery hair, 
To win thee but this at last ? 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



215 



WHERE IS THE SEA? 

SONG OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. 



A Greek Islander, being taken to the Vale of Tcnipe, 
and called upon to admire its beauty, only replied—" The 
sca—tohere is it ? 

Where is the sea ?— I languish here— 

Where is my own blue sea ? 
With all its barks in fleet career, 

And flags, and breezes free. 

I miss that voice of waves, vs'hich first 

Awoke my childhood's glee ; 
The measured chime — the thundering burst — 

Where is my own blue sea ? 

Oh ! rich your myrtle's breath may rise, 

Soft, soft your winds may be ; 
Yet ray sick heart within me dies — 

Where is my own blue sea ? 

I hear the shepherd's mountain tiute — 

I liear the whispering tree ; 
The echoes of my soul are mute : 

— Where is my own blue sea 7 



SONGS OF CAPTIVITY. 



These songs (with the exception of the fifth) have all 
been set to music by the author's sister, and are in the 
possession of Mr. Willis, by whose permission they are 
here published. 



INTRODUCTION. 

One hour for distant homes to weep 
'Midst Afric's burning sands. 

One silent sunset hour was given 
To the slaves of many lands. 

They sat beneath a lonely palm, 
In the gardens of their lord; 

And mingling with the fountain's tune, 
Their songs of exile pour'd. 

And strangely, sadly, did those lays 

Of Alp and Ocean sound. 
With Afric's wild red skies above, 

And solemn wastes around. 

Broken with tears were oft their tones, 
And most when most they tried 

To breathe of hope and liberty, 
From hearts that inly died. 

So met the sons of many lands, 
Parted by mount and main ; 

So did they sing in brotherhood, 
Made kindred by the chain. 



THE BROTHER'S DIRGE. 



But thou, but thou, my brother ! 

Thy life-drops flow'd for me— 
Would I were with thee in thy rest, 

Young sleeper of the sea. 

In a shelter'd home of England 

Our sister dwells alone. 
With quick heart listening for the sound 
Of footsteps that are gone. 
She little dreams, my brother I 

Of the wild fate we have found; 
I, 'midst the Afric sands a slave. 
Thou, by the dark seas bound. 



II. 
THE ALPINE HORN. 



The Alpine horn! the Alpine horn ! 

Oh I through my native sky. 
Might I but hear its deep notes borne, 

Once more,— but once,— and die! 

Yet, no! 'midst breezy hills thy breath, 

So full of hope and morn, 
Would win me from the bed of death— 

O joyous Alpine horn 1 

But here the echo of that blast. 

To many a battle known. 
Seems mournfully to wander past, 

A wild, shrill, wailing tone ! 

Haunt me no more ! for slavery's air 
Thy proud notes were not born ; 

The dream but deepens my despair — 
Be hush'd, thou Alpine horn! 



m. 

O YE VOICES. 



In the proud old fanes of England 

My warrior fathers lie. 
Banners hang drooping o'er their dust 
With gorgeous blazonry. 
But thou, but thou, my brother ! 
O'er thee dark billows sweep. 
The best and bravest heart of all 
Is shrouded by the deep. 

In the old high wars of England 

My noble fathers bled ; 
For her lion kings of lance and spear, 

They went down to the dead. 



O YE voices round my own hearth singing! 

As the winds of May to memory sweet, 
Micht I yet return, a worn heart bringing. 

Would those vernal tones the Wanderer greet 
Once again ? 

Never, never! Spring hath smiled and parted 
Oft since then your fond farewell was said ; 

O'er the green turf of the gentle-hearted. 
Summer's hand the rose-leaves may have shed, 
Oft again. 

Or if still around my hearth ye linger. 
Yet, sweet voices ! there must change have come ; 

Years have quell'd the free soul of the singer, 
Vernal tones shall greet the Wanderer home. 
Ne'er again ! 



IV. 

I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE. 

I DKEAM of all things free ! 

Of a gallant, gallant bark. 
That sweeps through storm and sea. 

Like an arrow to its mark! 
Of a stag that o'er the hills 

Goes bounding in his glee ; 
Of a thousand flashing rills — 

Of all things glad and free. 

I dream of some proud bird, 
A bright-eyed mountain king! 

In my visions I have heard 
The rushing of his wing. 



216 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



I follow some wild river, 

On whose breast no sail may be ; 
Dark woods around it shiver— 

— I dream of all things free ! 

Of a happy forest child, 

With the fawns and flowers at play ; 
Of an Indian 'midst the wild, 

With the stars to guide his way: 
Of a chief his warriors leading. 

Of an archer's greenwood tree : — 
— My heart in chains is bleeding, 

And I dream of all things free ! 



V. 
FAR O'ER THE SEA. 



Where are the vintage songs 

Wandering in glee? 
Where dance the peasant bands 

Joyous and free ? 
Under a kind blue sky. 
Where doth my birth-place lie ? 

— Far o'er the sea ! 

Where floats the myrtle-scent 

O'er vale and lea. 
When evening calls the dove 

Homewards to flee ? 
Where doth the orange gleam 
Soft on my native stream? 

— Far o'er the sea ! 

Where are sweet eyes of love 

Watching for me ? 
Where o'er the cabin roof 

Waves the green tree ? 
Where speaks the vesper-chime 
Still of a holy time ? 

— Far o'er tiie sea! 

Dance on, ye vintage bands, 

Fearless and free ! 
Still fresh and greenly wave, 

My father's tree ! 
Still smile, ye kind blue skies! 
Though your son pines and dies 

Far o'er the sea ! 



VI. 
THE INVOCATION. 



Oh! art thou still on earth, my love ? 

My only love ! 
Or smiling in a brighter home. 

Far, far above ? 

Oh! is thy sweet voice fled, my love? 

Thy light step gone ? 
And art thou not, in Earth or Heaven, 

Still, still my own? 

I see thee with thy gleaming hair. 
In midnight dreams ! 

But cold, and clear, and spirit like, 
Thy soft eye seems. 

Peace in thy saddest hour, my love I 
Dwelt on thy brow ; 

But something mournfully divine 
There shineth now ! 

And silent ever is thy lip. 

And pale thy cheek ;— 
Oh! art thou Earth's, or art thou Heaven's? 

Speak to me, speak ! 



VII. 
THE SONG OF HOPE. 



Droop not, my brothers ! I hear a glad strain — 
We shall burst forth like streams from the winter- 
night's chain ; 
A flag is unfurl'd, a bright star of the sea, 
A ransom approaches— we yet shall be free ! 

Where the pines wave, where the light chamois 

leaps. 
Where the lone eagle hath built on the steeps. 
Where the snows glisten, the mountain rills foam, 
Free as the falcon's wing, yet shall we roam. 

Where the hearth shines, where the kind looks 

are met. 
Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet! 
Crossing the desert, o'ersweeping the sea, — 
Droop not, my brothers ! we yet shall be free 1 



THE BIRD AT SEA. 



Bird of the greenwood ! 

Oh ! why art thou here 
Leaves dance not o'er thee, 

Flowers bloom not near. 

All the sweet waters 
Far hence are at play — 

Bird of the greenwood ! 
Away, away ! 

Where the mast quivers, 
Thy peace will not be. 

As 'midst the waving 
Of wild rose and tree. 

How should'st thou battle 
With storm and with spray? 

Bird of the greenwood! 
Away, away ! 

Or art thou seeking 

Some brighter land. 
Where by the south-wind 

Vine leaves are fann'd ? 

'Midst the wild billows 

Why then delay ? 
Bird of the greenwood ! 

Away, away ! 

" Chide not my lingering 
Where storms are dark ; 

A hand that hath nursed me 
Is in the bark ; 

A heart that hath cherish'd 
Through winter's long day. 

So I turn from the greenwood. 
Away, away !" 



THE IVY-SONG. 



Written on receiving some Ivy-leaves, gathered from 
the ruined Castle of Kheinfels on the Rhine. 



Oh ! how could fancy crown with thee, 

In ancient days, the God of Wine, 
And bid thee at the banquet be 

Companion of the vine? 
Ivy ! thy home is where each sound 

Of revelry hath long been o'er, 
Where song and beaker once went round, 

But now are known no more. 

Where long-fallen gods recline, 
There the place is thine. 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



217 



The Roman on his battle-plains, 

Where Kings before his eagles bent, 
With thee, amidst exulting strains, 

Shadow'd the victor's tent : 
Though shining there in deathless green, 

Triumphally thy boughs might wave, 
Better thou lov'st the silent scene 

Around the victor's grave. ' 

Urn and sculpture half divine 
Yield their place to thine. 

The cold halls of the regal dead, 

Where lone th' Italian sunbeams dwell. 
Where hollow sounds the lightest tread — 

Ivy ! they know thee well ! 
And far above the festal vine. 

Thou vi'av'st where once proud banners hung 
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine 

— The Rhine, still fresh and young ! 
Tower and rampart o'er tlie Rhine 
—Ivy ! all are thine ! 

High from the fields of air look down 

Those eyries of a vanish'd race. 
Where harp, and battle, and renown, 

Have pass'd, and left no trace. 
But thou art there !— serenely bright. 

Meeting the mountain storms with bloom. 
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height, 

Or crown the lowliest tomb ! 
Ivy, Ivy ! all are thine, 
Palace, hearth, and shrine. 

'Tis still the same ; our pilgrim tread 

O'er classic plains, through deserts free. 
On the mute path of ages fled. 

Still meets decay and thee. 
And still let man liis fabrics rear, 

August in beauty, stern in power, 
— Days pass — thou Ivy never sere I* 

And thou shalt have thy dower. 

All are thine, or must be thine — 
— Temple, pillar, shrine ! 



THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS. 



" I desire as I look on these, the ornaments and children 
of Earth, to know whether, indeed, such things I shall 
see no more'?--whether they have no likeness, no arche- 
type in the world in which my future home is to be cast 1 
or whether they have their images above, only wrought 
in a more wondrous and delightful mould." Conver- 
sations with an Ambitious Student in ill health. 

Bear them not from grassy dells. 
Where wild bees have honey-cells ; 
Not from where sweet water-sounds 
Thrill the greenwood to its bounds ; 
Not to waste their scented breath 
On the silent room of Death ! 

Kindred to the breeze they are, 
And the glow-worm's emerald star. 
And the bird, whose song is free, 
And the many-whispering tree: 
Oh I too deep a love, and vain. 
They would win to earth again. 

Spread them not before the eyes. 
Closing fast on summer skies I 
Woo thou not the spirit back. 
From its lone and viewless track, 
With the bright things which have birth 
Wide o'er all tlie colour'd earth ! 

With the violet's breath would rise 
Thoughts too sad for her who dies ; 
From the lily's pearl-cup shed. 
Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed ; 
Dreams of youth— of spring-time eves — 
Music— beauty— all she leaves I 

* Ye Myrtles brown, and Ivy never sere. — Lycides. 

28 



Hush ! 'tis thou that dreaming art, 
Calmer is her gentle heart. 
Yes ! o'er fountain, vale, and grove 
Leaf and flower, hath gush'd her love ; 
But that passion, deep and true 
Knows not of a last adieu. ' 

Types of lovelier forms than these, 
In their fragile mould she sees ; 
Shadows of yet richer things, 
Born beside innnortal springs. 
Into fuller glory wrought. 
Kindled by surpassing thought I 

Therefore, in the lily's leaf, 
She can read no word of grief; 
O'er the woodbine she can dwell, 
Murmuring not— Farewell ! farewell ! 
And her dim, yet speaking eye. 
Greets the violet solemnly. 

Therefore, once, and yet again. 
Strew them o'er her bed of pain ; 
From her chamber take the gloom. 
With a light and flush of bloom : 
So should one depart, who goes 
Where no Death can touch the rose : 



KEENE, OR LAMENT OF AN IRISH MO- 
THER OVER HER SON. 



This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of 
the Irish Keenes, many of which are distinguished by a 
wild and deep pathos, and other characteristics analo- 
gous to those of the national music. 



Darkiy the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-haired son ! 

Silent and dark. 

There is blood upon the threshold 
Whence thy step went forth at morn, 

Like a dancer's in its fleetness, 
O ray bright first-born ! 

At the glad sound of that footstep. 
My heart within me smiled; 

—Thou wert brought me back all silent 
On thy bier, my child! 

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-haired son I 

Silent and dark. 

I thought to see thy children 
Laugh on me with thine eyes; 

But my sorrow's voice is lonely 
Where my life's flower lies. 

I shall go to sit beside thee. 
Thy kindred's graves among; 

I shall hear the tall grass whisper — 
I shall hear it not long I 

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-haired son I 

Silent and dark. 

And I too shall find slumber 
Witb my lost one, in the earth; 

— Let none light up the ashes 
Again on our hearth! 

Let the roof go down !— let silence 

On the home for ever fall. 
Where my boy lay cold, and heard not 

His lone Mother's call ! 

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-haired son ! 

Silent and dark. 



218 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



THE MUSIC OF ST. PATRICK'S. 

The choral music of St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, 
is almost unrivalled in its combined powers of voice, 
orKan, and scientific skill. — The majestic harmony of 
effect thus produced is not a little deepened by the cha- 
racter of the Church itself; which, though small, yet 
with its dark rich fretwork, knightly helmets and ban- 
ners, and old monumental effigies, seems all filled and 
overshadowed by the spirit of chivalrous antiquity. The 
imagination never fails to recognize it as a filling scene 
for high solemnities of old ; — a place to witness the soli- 
tary vigil of arms, or to resound with the funeral march 
at the burial of some warlike King. 

All the choir 
Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas. 



Again, oh! send that anthem peal ajain 
Thro' the arch'd roof in triumph to the sky ! 
Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain, 
The banners thrill as if with victory ! 

Such sounds the warrior awe-struck might have 

heard, 
While arm'd for fields of chivalrous renown ; 
Such the high hearts of Kings might well have 

stirr'd. 
While throbbing still beneath the recent crown. 

Those notes once more I— they bear my soul away, 
They lend the wings of morning to its flight ; 
No earthly passion in th' exulting lay, 
Whispers one tone to win me from that height. 

All is of Heaven ! — Yet wherefore to mine eye 
Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source? 
Ev'n while the waves of that strong harmony 
Roll with my spirit on their sounding course ! 

Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal 
Thus by the burst of sorrow's token-shower? 
— Oh! is it not, that humbly we may feel 
Our nature's limit in its proudest hour? 



ENGLAND'S DEAD. 



Son of the Ocean Isle ! 

Where sleep your mighty dead? 
Show me what high and stately pile 

Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed. 

Go, Stranger ! track the deep. 
Free, free, the white sail spread ! 

Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep. 
Where rest not England's dead. 

On Egypt's burning plains, 

By the Pyramid o'ersway'd. 
With fearful power the noon-day reigns, 

And the Palm-trees yield no shade. 

But let the angry sun 

From heaven look fiercely red 
Unfelt by those whose task is done I 

There slumber England's dead. 

The hurricane hath might 

Along the Indian shore, 
And far, by Ganges' banks, at night 

Is heard the tiger's roar. 

But let the sound roll on ! 

It hath no tone of dread. 
For those that from their toils are gone — 

— There slumber England's dead ! 

Loud rush the torrent floods 

The western wilds among, 
And free, in green Columbia's woods. 

The hunter's bow is strung. 



But let the -floods rush on ! 

Let the arrow's "flight be sped ! 
Why should they reck whose task is done ? 

— There slumber England's dead. 

The mountain storms rise high 

In the snowy Pyrenees, 
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky. 

Like rose-leaves on the breeze. 

But let the storm rage on ! 

Let the fresh wreaths be shed ! 
For the Roncesvalles' field is won — 

— There slumber England's dead; 

On the frozen deep's repose, 

'Tis a dark and dreadful hour 
When round the ship the ice-fields close 

And the northern night-clouds lower. 

But let the ice drift on ! 

Let the cold blue desert spread ! 
Their course with mast and flag is done — 

— Ev'n there sleep England's dead ! 

The warlike of the Isles, 

The men of field and wave ! 
Are not the rocks their funeral piles? 

The seas and shores their grave ? 

Go, Stranger! track the deep! 

Free, free the white sail spread! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, 

Where rest not England's dead !* 



FAR AWAY.t 



Far away !— my home is far away, 
Where the blue sea laves a mountain shore ; 

In the woods I hear my brothers play, 
'iWidst the flowers my sister sings once more, 
Far away ! 

Far away ! my dreams are far away, 
When at midnight, stars and shadows reign ; 

" Gentle child," my mother seems to say, 
" Follow me where home shall smile again !" 
Far away ! 

Far away ! my hope is far away. 

Where love's voice young gladness may restore ; 
— O thou dove ! now soaririg through the day, 

Lend me wings to reach that better sliore 
Far away ! 



THE LYRE AND FLOWER. 



A LYRE its plaintive sweetness pour'd 

Forth on the wild wind's track ; 
The stormy wanderer jarr'd the chord, 
But gave no music back. 
— Oh ! child of song ! 

Bear hence to heaven thy fire ! 
What hop'st thou from the reckless throng ? 
Be not like that lost lyre ! 
Not like that lyre ! 

A flower its leaves and odours cast 

On a swift-rolling wave ; 
Th' unheeding torrent darkly pass'd, 
And back no treasure gave. 
—Oh ! heart of love ! 

Waste not thy precious dower ! 
Turn to thine only home above. 
Be not like that lost flower ! 
Not like that flower. 

* Set to music by the Author's sister. 

t This, and the five following songs, have been set to music o* 
great merit, by J. Zeugheer Herrmann, and H. F. C, and are publish- 
ed in a set by Mr. Power, who has given permission for the appear- 
ance of the words in this Volume. 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



219 



SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST. 



Sister ! since I met thee last, 
O'er thy brow a change hath past, 
In the softness of thine eyes 
Deep and still a shadow lies; 
From thy voice there thrills a tone, 
Never to thy childhood known ; 
Through thy soul a storm hath moved, 
Gentle sister, thou hast loved ! 

Yes ! thy varying cheek hath caught 
Hues too bright from troubled thought; 
Far along the wandering stream. 
Thou art followed by a dream ; 
In the woods and valleys lone, 
Music haunts thee not thine own : 
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain ? 
Sister, thou hast loved in vain 1 

Tell me not the tale, my flower! 
On my bosom pour that shower! 
Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted ; 
Tell me not of young hopes blasted ; 
Wring not forth one burning word, 
Let thy heart no more be stirr'd ! 
Home alone can give thee rest. 
— Weep, sweet sister, on my breast ! 



THE LONELY BIRD. 

From a ruin thou art singing. 

Oh! lonely, lonely bird! 
The soft blue air is ringing. 

By thy summer music stirr'd ; 
But all is dark and cold beneath, 

Where harps no more are heard: 
Whence winn'st thou that exulting breath. 

Oh! lonely, lonely bird? 

Thy song flows richly swelling, 

To a triumph of glad sounds, 
As from its cavern dwelling 

A stream in glory bounds ! 
Though the castle echoes catch no tone 

Of human step or word, 
Tho' the fires be quench'd and the feasting done. 

Oh! lonely, lonely bird ! 

How can that flood of gladness 

Rush through thy fiery lay. 
From the haunted place of sadness, 

From the bosom of decay ? 
While dirge-notes in the breeze's moan, 

Through the ivy garlands heard. 
Come blent with thy rejoicing tone. 

Oh ! lonely, lonely bird ! 

There's many a heart, wild singer. 

Like thy forsaken tower, 
Where joy no more may linger. 

Where love hath left his bowef : 
And there's many a spirit e'en like thee. 

To mirth as lightly stirr'd. 
Though it soar from ruins in its glee, 

Oh ! lonely, lonely bird ! 



Lonely, lonely is thy bed. 
Never there may flower be shed. 
Marble rear'd, or brother's head 
Bow'd to weep. 

Yet thy record on the sea, 
Borne through battle high and free, 
Long the red cross flag shall be. 
Sleep! O sleep! 



PILGRIM'S SONG TO THE EVENING STAR. 



O SOFT Star of the west ! 

Gleaming far, 
Thou'rt guiding all things home. 

Gentle star ! 
Thou bring'st from rock and wave, 

The sea-bird to her nest, 
Tlie hunter from the hills. 
The fisher back to rest. 
Light of a thousand streams. 

Gleaming far! 
O soft star of the west. 
Blessed star ! 

No bowery roof is mine, 

No hearth of love and rest. 
Yet guide me to my shrine, 

O soft star of the west ! 
There, there, my home shall be, 

Heaven's dew shall cool my breast. 
When prayer and tear gush free, 

— O soft star of the west ! 

O soft star of the west, 

Gleaming far! 
Thou'rt guiding all things home. 

Gentle star ! 
Shine from thy rosy heaven, 
Four joy on earth and sea ! 
Shiije on, though no sweet eyes 
Look forth to watch for me ! 
Light of a thousand streams. 

Gleaming far ! 
O soft star of the west ! 

Blessed star ! 



THE SPARTAN'S MARCH. 



"The Spartans used not llie trumpet in their march 
into battle," saysThucydides, because they wished not 
to excite the rage of their warriors. Their charaing-step 
was made " to the Dorian mood of flutes and soft re- 
corders." The valour of a Spartan was loo highly tem- 
pered to require a stunning or rousing impulse. His 
spirit was like a steed too proud for the spur." Camp- 
bell on the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks. 



DIRGE AT SEA. 



Sleep ! — we give thee to the wave. 
Red with life-blood from the brave. 
Thou shalt find a noble grave. 
Fare thee well ! 

Sleep ! thy billowy field is won. 
Proudly may the funeral gun, 
'Midst the hush at set of sun, 
Boom thy knell ! 



'TwAS morn upon the Grecian hills. 
Where peasants dress'd the vines. 

Sunlight was on Cithsron's rills, 
Arcadia's rocks and pines. 

And brightly, through his reeds and flowers, 

Eurotas wander'd by. 
When a sound arose from Sparta's towers 

Of solemn harmony. 

Was it the hunter's choral strain 
To the woodland-goddess pour'd? 

Did virgin hands in Pallas' fane 
Strike the full-sounding chord? 

But helms were glancing on the stream. 

Spears ranged in close array. 
And shields flung back a glorious beam 

To the morn of a fearful day ! 



220 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



And the mountain echoes of the land 
Sweird through the deep- blue sky, 

While to soft strains moved forth a band. 
Of men that moved to die. 

They march'd riot with the trumpet's blast, 

Nor bade the horn peal out, 
And the laurel-groves, as on they pass'd. 

Rung vifith no battle-shout ! 

They ask'd no clarion's voice to fire 
Their souls with an impulse high ; 

But the Dorian reed, and the Spartan lyre. 
For the sons of liberty ! 

And still sweet flutes, their path around. 

Sent forth iEolian breath : 
They needed not a sterner sound 

To marshal them for death ! 

So moved they calmly to their field, 

Thence never to return, 
Save bringing back the Spartan shield. 

Or on it proudly borne ! 



THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS. 

A LEGEND OF WALES. 



It is an old tradition of the Welsh Bavdg, that on the 
Bummit of the mountain Cader Idris, m an excavation 
resembling a couch ; and that whoever should pass a 
night in that hollow, would bo found in the morning 
either dead, in a state of frenzy, or endowed with the 
highest poetical inspiration. This song is one of a "Se- 
lection of Welsh Melodies, arranged by John Parry, and 
published by Mr. Power." 



I LAY on that rock where the storms have their 
dwelling, 
The birth-place of phantoms, the home of the 
cloud ; 
Around it for ever deep music is swelling. 
The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and 
loud. 
'Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming. 
Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their 
moan ; 
Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulphs faintly 
gleaming. 
And I met the dreadgloomof its grandeur alone. 

I lay there in silence — a Spirit came o'er me; 
Man's tongue hath no language to speak what 
I saw ; 
Things elorious, unearthly, pass'd floating before 
me. 
And my heart almost fainted with rapture and 
awe ! 
I view'd the dread beings, around us that hover. 

Though veil'd by the mists of mortality's breath ; 
And I call'd upon darkness the vision to cover. 
For a strife was within me of madness and death. 

I saw them — the powers of the wind and the ocean. 
The rush of whose pinion bears onward the 
storms ; 
Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was 
their motion, 
I felt their dim presence, — but knew not their 
forms ! 
I saw them — the mighty of ages departed — 

The dead were around me that night on the hill : 
From their eyes, as they pass'd, a cold radiance 

they darted, 
— There was light on my soul, but my heart's blood 
was chill. 



I saw what man looks on, and dies— but my spirit 

Was strong, and triumphantly lived thro' that 
hour : 
And as from the grave, I awoke to inherit 

A flame all immortal, a Voice, and a power I 
Day burst on that rock with the purplecloud crested. 

And high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun ; 
—But oh ! what new glory all nature invested. 

When the sense which gives soul to her beauty 
was won ! 



THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. 



"We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a 
few words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice toge- 
ther for a few short moments;— and then days, months, 
years intervene— and we see and know nothing of each 
other." Washington Irving. 



Two barks met on the deep mid-sea. 
When calms had still'd the tide; 

A few bright days of summer glee 
There found them side by side. 

And voices of the fair and brave 
Rose mingling thence in mirth ; 

And sweetly floated o'er the wave 
The melodies of earth. 

Moonlight on that lone Indian main 

Cloudless and lovely slept ; — 
While dancing step, and festive strain 

Each deck in triumph swept. 

And hands were link'd, and answering eyes 

With kindly meaning shone ; 
— Oh I brief and passing sympathies, 

Like leaves together blown ! 

A little while such joy was cast 

Over the deep's repose. 
Till the loud singing winds at last 

LiJve trumpet music rose. 

And proudly, freely on their way 

The parting vessels bore ; 
— In calm or storm, by rock or bay, 

To meet— Oh ! never more ! 

Never to blend in victory's cheer. 

To aid in hours of woe: — 
And thus bright spirits mingle here. 

Such ties are form'd below ! 



A FAREWELL TO WALES. 

FOR THE MELODY CALLED " THE ASH GROVE." 
ON LEAVING THAT COUNTRY WITH MY CHILDREN. 



The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear — 
— Farewell ! and a blessing be with thee, green 
land I 
On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure moun- 
tain-air. 
On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel's free 
hand ! 
From the love of my soul with my tears it is 

shed, 
As I leave thee, green land of my home and 
my dead ! 

I bless thee !— yet not for the beauty which dwells 

In the heart of thy hills, on the rocks of thy shore; 

And not for the memory set deep in thy dells. 

Of the bard and the hero, the mighty of yore ; 

And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled. 

Green land. Poet-land of myhomeandmydead! 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



221 



I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat, 

Where'er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies, 
For thy cottage hearths, burning the stranger to 
greet. 
For the soul that shines forth from thy children's 
kind eyes ! 
May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee 

be spread. 
Green land of my childhood, my home, and my 
dead! 



THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.* 



"All is not lost — the uncoDquerable will 
And courage never to submit or yield." 



The Hall of Harps is lone to-night, 

And cold the chieftain's hearth ; 
It hath no mead, it hath no light, 

No voice of melody, no sound of mirtii. 

The bow lies broken on the floor 

Whence the free step is gone; 
The pilgrim turns him from the door 

Where minstrel-blood hath stain'd the threshold 
stone. 

And I too go — my wound is deep, 

My brethren long have died— 
Yet ere my soul grow dark with sleep, 

Winds ! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride 1 

Bear it, where on his battle plain. 

Beneath the setting sun. 
He counts my country's noble slain — 

Say to him — Saxon ! think not all is won. 

Thou hast laid low the warrior's head. 

The minstrel's chainless hand ; 
— Dreamer ! that number's! with the dead, 

The burning spirit of the mountain land! 

Think'st thou because the song hath ceased. 

The soul of song is flown ? 
Think'st thou it woke to crown the feast. 

It lived beside the ruddy hearth alone ? 

No ! by our wrongs, and by our blood. 

We leave it pure and free — 
Though hush'd awhile, that sounding flood 

Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be. 

We leave it 'midst our country's woe. 

The birth-right of her breast— 
We leave it as we leave the snow 

Bright and eternal on tEryri's crest. 

We leave it with our fame to dwell 

Upon our children's breath. 
Our voice in theirs through time shall swell— 

The Bard hath gifts of prophecy from death. 

He dies — but yet the mountains stand. 

Yet sweeps the torrent's tide ; 
And this is yet IJIneurin's land — 

Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride! 



COME AWAY!§ 



Come away ! — the child, where flowers are spring- 
ing 
Round its footsteps on the mountain slope, 
Hears a glad voice from the upland singing, 
Like the sky-lark's with its tone of hope : 
Come away ! 



t Eryri, Welsh name for the Snowdon mountains. 
J Aneurin, one of the noblest of the Welsh bards. 
§ This song is in the possession of Mr. Power, to be Eel to music. 



Bounding on, with sunny lands before him, 
All the wealth of glowing life outspread, 

Ere the shadow of a cloud comes o'er him, 
By that strain the youth in joy is led : 
Come away ! 

Slowly, sadly, heavy change is falling 
O'er the sweetness of the voice within ; 

Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling. 
Urge the hunter still to chase, to win ; 
Come away ! 

Come away! — the heart, at last forsaken. 
Smile by smile, hath proved each hope untrue ; 

Yet a breath can still those words awaken. 
Though to other shores far hence they woo : 
Come away ! 

In the light leaves, in the reed's faint sighing, 
In the low sweet sounds of early spring. 

Still their music wanders — till the dying 
Hears them pass, as on a spirit's wing : 
Come away ! 



MUSIC FROM SHORE. 



A SOUND comes on the rising breeze, 

A sweet and lovely sound ! 
Piercing the tumult of the seas 

That wildly dash around. 

From land, from sunny land it comes. 
From hills with murmuring trees. 

From paths by still and happy homes — 
That sweet sound on the breeze. 

Why should its faint and passing sigh 
Thus bid my quick pulse leap? 

No part in earth's glad melody 
Is mine upon the deep. 

Yet blessing, blessing on the spot. 
Whence those rich breathings flow ! 

Kind hearts, although they know me not. 
Like mine there beat and glow. 

And blessing, from the bark that roams 

O'er solitary seas, 
To those that far in happy homes 

Give sweet sounds to the breeze ! 



FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL. 



"Fair Helen of Kirconnel," as she is called in the 
Scottish Minstrelsy, throwing herself between her be- 
trothed lover and a rival by whom his lile was assailed, 
received a mortal wound, and died in the arms of the 
former. 



Hold me upon thy faithful heart, 

Keep back my flitting breath ; 
'Tis early, early to depart. 

Beloved !— yet this is death ! 

Look on me still :— let that kind eye 

Be the last light I see ! 
Oh ! sad it is in spring to die, 

But yet I die for thee ! 

For thee, my own ! thy stately head 

Was never thus to bow ! — 
Give tears when with me love hath fled, 

True love, thou know'st it now ! 

Oh ! the free streams look'd bright, where'er 

We in our gladness roved ; 
And the blue skies were very fair — 

O friend ! because we loved. 

Farewell !— I bless thee— live thou on, 

When this young heart is low ! 
Surely my blood thy life hath won — 

Clasp me once more — I go ! 



222 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



t LOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLESS 
EYES. 



Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, 
Truth in their dark transparence lies ; 
Their sweetness gives me back the tears, 
And the free trust of early years ; 

My gentle child I 

The spirit of my infant prayer 
Shines in the depths of quiet there ; 
And home and love once more are mine, 
Found in that dewy calm divine, 

My gentle child 1 

Oh ! heaven is with thee in thy dreams. 
Its light by day around thee sjleams ; 
Thy smile hath gifts from vernal skies ; 
— Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, 
My gentle child ! 



I GO, SWEET FRIENDS. 



I 60, sweet friends ! yet think of me 

When Spring's young voice awakes the flowers: 
For we have wander'd far and free. 

In those bright hours, the violet's hours. 

I go— but when you pause to hear, 
From distant hills, the Sabbath bell 

On summer winds float silverv clear. 
Think on me then— I loved it well ! 

Forget me not around your hearth. 
When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze, 

For dear hath been its evening mirth 
To me, sweet friends ! in other days. 

And oh ! when music's voice is heard 

To melt in strains of parting woe, 
When hearts to love and grief are stirr'd— 

— Think of me then ! I go, I go ! 



IF THOU HAST CRUSHED A FLOWER. 



Oh cast thou not 
Affection from thee ! In this bitter world 
Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast ; 
Watch— guard it— suffer not a breath to dim 
The bright gem's purity ! 



If thou hast crush 'd a flower, 

The root may not be blighted; 
If thou hast quench'd a lamp. 

Once more it may be lighted : 
Btit on thy harp or on thy lute. 

The siring which thou hast broken. 
Shall never in sweet sound again 

Give to thy touch a token ! 

If thou hast loosed a bird. 

Whose voice of song could cheer thee. 
Still, still he may be won 

From the skies to warble near thee ; 
But if upon the troubled sea 

Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded, 
Hope not that wind or wave will bring 

The treasure back when needed. 

If thou hast bruised a vine. 
The summer's breath is healing, 

And its clusters yet may glow. 
Through the leaves their bloom revealing : 

t The songs marked thus } are in the possession of Mr. Willis to 
be published by him with music. 



But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown 
With a bright draught fill'd— oh! never 

Shall earth give back that lavish'd wealth 
To cool thy parch'd lip's fever ! ' 

The heart is like that cup. 

If thou waste the love it bore thee ; 
And like that jewel gone. 

Which the deep will not restore thee; 
And like that strain of harp or lute 

Whence the sweet sound is scatter'd ■— 
Gently, oh I gently touch the chords, 

So soon for ever shatler'd ! 



tBRIGHTLV HAST THOU FLED. 

Brightly, brightly hast thou fled. 
Ere one grief had bow'rt thy head, 

Brightly didst thou part ! 
With thy young thoughts pure from spot. 
With thy fond love wasted not. 

With thy bounding heart. 

Ne'er by sorrow to be wet. 
Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet, 

Ere with dust o'erspread : 
Lilies ne'er by tempest blown, 
White-rose which no stain hath known, 

Be about thee shed ! 

So we give thee to the earth, 
And the primrose shall have birth 

O'er thy gentle head ; 
Thou that like a dew-drop, borne 
On a sudden breeze of morn, 

Brightly thus hast fled ! 



tSING TO ME, GONDOLIER. 



Sing to me. Gondolier I 

Sing words from Tasso's lay; 
While blue, and still, and clear. 

Night seems but softer day : 
Tlie gale is gently falling. 

As if it paused to hear 
Some strain the past recalling; 

Sing to me. Gondolier! 

Oh, ask me not to wake 

The memory of the brave ; 
Bid no high numbers break 

The silence of the wave. 
Gone are the noble-hearted. 

Closed the bright pageants here ; 
And the glad song is departed 

From the mournful Gondolier ! 



O'ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS.* 



O'ER the far blue mountains, 
O'er the white sea foam. 

Come, thou long parted one ! 
Back to thine home ! 

When the bright fire shineth. 

Sad looks thy place. 
While the true heart pineth, 

Missing thy face. 

Music is sorrowful 
Since thou art gone. 

Sisters are mourning thee. 
Come to thine own ! 



* Set to music by the Author's sister. 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



223 



Hark ! the home voices call 

Back to thy rest ; 
Come to thy father's hall, 

Thy mother's breast ! 

O'er the far blue mountains, 
O'er the white sea foam, 

Come, thou long parted one! 
Back to thine home ! 



O THOU BREEZE OF SPRING!* 



O Tiiou breeze of spring ! 

Gladdening sea and shore, 
Wake the woods to sing, 

Wake my heart no more ! 
Streams have felt the sighing 

Of thy scented wing. 
Let each fount replying 

Hail thee, breeze of spring, 
Once more ! 

O'er long buried flowers 

Passing, not in vain. 
Odours in soft showers 

Thou hast brought again. 
— Let the primrose greet thee, 

Let the violet pour 
Incense forth to meet thee — 

Wake my heart no more ! 
No more ! 

From a funeral urn 

Bower'd in leafy gloom, 
Ev'n thy soft return 

Calls not song or bloom. 
Leave my spirit sleeping 

Like tiiat silent thing; 
Stir the founts of weeping 

There, O breeze of spring. 
No more ! 



COME TO ME, DREAMS OF HEAVEN. 



Come to me, dreams of heaven I 

My fainting spirit bear 
On your bright wings, by morning given, 

Up to celestial air. 
Away, far, far away. 

From bowers by tempests riven. 
Fold me in blue, still, cloudless day, 

O blessed dreams of heaven ! 

Come but for one brief hour. 

Sweet dreams! and yet again. 
O'er burning thought and memory shower 

Your soft effacing rain ! 
Waft me where gales divine. 

With dark clouds ne'er have striven. 
Where living founts for ever shine — 

O blessed dreams of heaven !t 



GOOD NIGHT.t 



Day is past ! 
Stars have set their watch at last, 
Founts that through the deep woods flow 
Make sweet sounds, unheard till now. 
Flowers have shut with fading light — 
Good night ! 



*Set to music by John Lodge, Esq. 
t Set to'music by Miss Graves. 
X For a melody of Eisenhofer's. 



Go to rest ! 
Sleep sit dove-like on thy breast ! 
If within that secret cell 
One dark form of memory dwell. 
Be it mantled from thy sight- 
Good night) 

Joy be thine ! 
Kind looks o'er thy slumbers shine ! 
Go, and in the spirit-land 
Meet thy home's long parted band, 
Be their eyes all love and light— i 
Good night ! , 

Peace to all ! 
Dreams of heaven on mourners fall! 
Exile ! o'er thy couch may gleams 
Pass from thine own mountain streams; 
Bard ! away to worlds more bright — 
Good night ! 



LET HER DEPART. 



Her home is far, oh ! far away ! 

The clear light in her eyes 
Hath naught to do with earthly day 

'Tis kindled from the skies. 
Let her depart ! 

She looks upon the things of earth, 

Ev'n as some gentle star 
Seems gazing down on grief or mirth, 

How softly, yet how far ! 

Let her depart ! 

Her spirit's hope— her bosom's love— 
Oh ! could they mount and fly ! 

She never sees a wandering dove, 
But for its wings to sigh. 

Let her depart ! 

She never hears a soft wind bear 

Low music on its way. 
But deems it sent from heavenly air, 

For her who cannot stay. 
Let her depart. 

Wrapt in a cloud of glorious dreams. 
She breathes and moves alone. 

Pining for those bright bowers and streams 
Where her beloved is gone. 
Let her depart ! 



WATER-LILIES. 

A FAIRY-SONG. 



Come away. Elves ! while the dew is sweet, 

Come to the dingles where fairies meet ; 

Know that the lilies have spread their bells 

O'er all the pools in our forest-dells ; 

Stilly and lightly their vases rest 

On the quivering sleep of the vifater's breast. 

Catching the sunshine through leaves that throw 

To their scented bosoms an emerald glow ; 

And a star from the depth of each pearly cup, 

A golden star unto heaven looks up, 

As if seeking its kindred where bright they lie, 

Set in the blue of the summer sky. 

^Come away ! under arching boughs we'll float, 

Making those urns each a fairy boat ; 

We'll row them with reeds o'er the fountains free, 

And a tall flag leaf shall our streamer be, 

And we'll send out wild music so sweet and low. 

It shall seem from the bright flower's heart to flow, 

As if 'twere a breeze with a flute's low sigh. 

Or water-drops train'd into melody. 

— Come away! for the midsummer sun grows strong, 

And the life of the lily may not be long. 



224 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



i I WOULD WE HAD NOT MET AGAIN. 



I WOULD we had not met again ! 

— I had a dream of thee, 
Lovely, though sad, on desert plain, 

Mournful on midnight sea. 

What though it haunted me by night, 
And troubled through the day ? 

It touch'd all earth with spirit-light, 
It glorified my way ! 

Oh ! what shall now my faith restore 

In holy things and fair? 
We met— I saw thy soul once more— 

—The world's breath had been there ! 

Yes ! it was sad on desert-plain, 

Mournful on midnight sea. 
Yet would I buy with life again 

That one deep dream of thee ! 



t THE BROKEN FLOWER. 



On! wear it on thy heart, my love ! 

Still, still a little while ! 
Sweetness is lingering in its leaves. 

Though faded be their smile. 
Yet, for the sake of what hath been. 

Oh ! cast it not away ! 
'T was born to grace a summer scene, 

A long, bright, golden day, 
"My love 1 

A long, bright, golden day ! 

A little while around thee, love ! 

Its fragrance yet shall cling. 
Telling, that on' thy heart hath Iain, 

A fair, though faded thing. 
But not ev'n that warm heart hath power 

To win it back from fate : 
—Oh ! / am like thy broken flower, 

Cherish'd too late, too late, 
My love ! 

Cherish'd, alas ! too late ! 



FAIRIES' RECALL. 



While the blue is richest 

In the starry sky. 
While the softest shadows 

On the greensward lie. 
While the moonlight slumbers 

In the lily's urn. 
Bright elves of the wild wood ! 

Oh ! return, return ! 

Round the forest fountain, 

On the river shore, 
Let your silvery laughter 

Echo yet once more ; 
While the joyous bounding 

Of your dewy feet 
Kings to that old chorus : 

" The daisy is so sweet!"* 

Oberon, Titania, 

Did your starlight mirth. 
With the song of Avon, 

(luit this work -day earth? 
Yet while green leaves glisten, 

And while bright stars burn. 
By that magic memory, 

Oh, return, return ! 



:t BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM AT REST 

By a mountain stream at rest, 
We found the warrior lying, 
And around his noble breast 
A banner, clasp'd in dying; 
Dark and still 
Was every hill. 
And the winds of night were sighing. 

Last of his noble race. 

To a lonely bed we bore him ; 
'T was a green, still, solemn place 
Where the moun tain heath waves o'er him. 
Woods alone 
Seem to moan. 
Wild streams to deplore him. 

Yet, from festive hall and lay 

Our sad thoughts oft are flying. 
To those dark hills far away. 
Where in death we found him lying ; 
On his breast 
A banner press'd. 
And the night- wind o'er him sighing. 



THE ROCK BESIDE THE SEA. 



Oh ! tell me not the woods are fair. 

Now Spring is on her way ; 
Well, well I know how brightly there 

In joy the young leaves play ; 
How sweet on winds of morn or eve 

The violet's breath may be ;— 
— Yet ask me, woo me not to leave 

3Iy lone rock by the sea. 

The wild wave's thunder on the shore. 

The curlew's restless cries. 
Unto my watching heart are more 

Than all earth's melodies. 
— Come back, my ocean rover I come ! 

There 's but one place for me. 
Till I can greet thy swift sail home— 

— My lone rock by the sea ! 



O YE VOICES GONE.* 



Oh ! ye voices gone. 

Sounds of other years ! 
Hush that haunting tone. 

Melt me not to tears ! 
All around forget. 

All who loved you well. 
Yet, sweet voices, yet 

O'er my soul ye swell. 

With the winds of spring, 

With the breath of flowers, 
Floating hack, ye bring 

Thoughts of vanish'd hours. 
Hence your music take. 

Oh ! ye voices gone I 
This lone heart ye make 

But more deeply lone. 



THE NAME OF ENGLAND. 



The trumpet of the battle 
Hath a high and thrilling tone ; 

And the first deep gun of an ocean fight 
Dread music all its own. 

But a mightier power, my England ! 

Is in that name of thine. 
To strike the fire from every heart 

Along the bauner'd line. 

* Set to music by Miss H. Corbetl. 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



225 



Proudly it woke the spirits 

Of yore, the brave and true, 
When the bow was bent on Cressy's field, 

And the yeoman's arrow flew. 

And proudly hath it floated 

Through the battles of the sea, 
When the red-cross flag o'er smoke-wreaths 
play'd 

Like the lightning in its glee. 

On rock, on wave, on bastion. 

Its echoes have been known. 
By a thousand streams the hearts lie low, 

That have answer'd to its tone. 

A thousand ancient mountains 

Its pealing note hath stirr'd ; 
— Sound on, and on, for evermore, 

O thou victorious word ! 



t IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHING. 

Is there some spirit sighing 

With sorrow in the air. 
Can weary hearts be dying, 

Vain love repining tlieref 
If not, then how can that wild wail, 

O sad jEolian lyre ! 
Be drawn forth by the wandering gale, 

From thy deep thrilling vs'ire 1 

No, no ! — thou dost not borrow 

That sadness from the wind. 
Nor are those tones of sorrow 

In thee, O harp! enshrined; 
But in our own hearts deeply set 

Lies the true quivering lyre. 
Whence love, and memory, and regret. 

Wake answers from thy wire. 



OLD NORWAY.* 

A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG. 



"To a Norwegian the words Gamle Morge fOld 
Norway) have a spell in them immediate and powerful : 
they cannot be resisted. Gamle JVorge is heard, in an 
instant repeated by every voice ; the glasses are filled, 
raised, and drained ; not a drop is left; and then bursts 
forth the simultaneous chorus 'ForM'orge!' the na- 
tional song of Norway. Here, (at Christiansand) and 
in a hundred other instances in Norway, I have seen 
the character of a company entirely changed by the 
chance introduction of the expression Gamle JVorge. 
The gravest discussion is instantly interrupted ; and one 
might suppose for the moment, that the party was a 
party of patriots, assembled to commemorate some na- 
tional anniversary offreedom." — Derwent Conway's 
Personal JSTarrative of a Journey through JVoricay 
and Sweden. 

The following words were written to the national air, 
as contained in the work above cited. 



Arise ! old Norway sends the word 

Of battle on the blast ; 
Her voice the forest pines have stirr'd, 

As if a storm went past ; 
Her thousand hills the call have heard. 

And forth their flre-flags cast. 



Arm, arm, free hunters! for the chase, 

The kingly chase of foes; 
'Tis not the bear or wild wolfs race. 

Whose trampling shakes the snows; 
Arm, arm ! 't is on a nobler trace 

The northern spearman goes. 

Our hills have dark and strong defiles. 

With many an icy bed ; 
Heap there the rocks for funeral piles. 

Above the invader's head ! 
Or let the seas, that guard our Isles, 

Give burial to his dead 1 



COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP. 



Come to me, gentle sleep ! 

I pine, I pine for thee ; 
Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep. 

And set my spirit free ! 
Each lonely, burning thought. 

In twilight languor steep — 
Come to the full heart, long o'eTwrouglit, 

O gentle, gentle sleep! 

Come with thine urn of dew. 

Sleep, gentle sleep! yet bring 
No voice, love's yearning to renew. 

No vision on thy wing! 
Come, as to folding flowers. 

To birds in forests deep ; 
—Long, dark, and dreamless be thine hours, 

O gentle, gentle sleep ! 



ENGLISH SOLDIER'S SONG OF MEMORY. 

TO THE AIR OF "AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN !" 



* These words have been published, as arranged to the spirited 
national air of Norway, by Charles Graves, Esq. 

29 



Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, 

Let song and wine be pour'd ! 
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted, 

Our brethren of the sword ! 

Oft at the feast, and in the fight, their voices 

Have mingled with our own ; 
Fill high the cup, but when the soul rejoices, 

Forget not who are gone ! 

They that stood with us, 'midst the dead and dying, 

On Albuera's plain ; 
They that beside us cheerly track'd the flying. 

Far o'er the hills of Spain : 

They that amidst us, when the shells were show- 
ering. 
From old Rodrigo's wall. 
The rampart scaled, through clouds of battle tow- 
ering, 
First, first at victory's call ! 

They that upheld the banners, proudly waving. 

In Roncesvalles' dell; 
—With England's blood the southern vineyards 
laving. 

Forget not how they fell ! 

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, 

Let song and wine be pour'd ! 
Pledge to Uieir fame, the free and fearless hearted. 

Our brethren of the sword ! 



226 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



THE HOME OF LOVE. 



Thou movest in visions, Love ! — Around thy way, 
E'en tlu'ougb tliis woTld's rough path and change- 
ful day, 

For ever floats a gleam. 
Not from the realms of moonlight or the morn. 
But thine own soul's illumined chambers born — 

The colouring of a dream ! 

Love, shall I read thy dream ? — oh ! is it not 
All of some sheltering, wood-embosom'd spot — 

A bovver for thee and thine ? 
Yes! lone and lowly is that home; yet there 
Something of heaven in the transparent air 

Makes every flower divine. 

Something that mellows and that glorifies, 
Breathes o'er it ever from the tender skies, 

As o'er some blessed isle ; 
E'en like the soft and spiritual glow. 
Kindling rich woods, whereon Ih' ethereal bow 

Sleeps lovingly awhile. 

The very whispers of the wind have there 
A flute-like harmony that seems to bear 

Greeting from some bright shore. 
Where none have said Farewell! — Where no decay 
Lends the faint crimson to the dying day ; 

Where the storm's might is o'er. 

And there thou dreamest of Elysian rest. 
In the deep sanctuary of one true breast 

Hidden from earthly ill : 
There wonldst thou watch the homeward step, 

whose sound 
Wakening all nature to sweet echoes round, 
Thine inmost soul can thrill. 

There by the hearth should many a glorious page, 
Prom mind to mind th' immortal heritage, 

For thee its treasures pour; 
Or music's voice at vesper hours be heard, 
Or dearer interchange of playful word. 

Affection's household lore. 

And the rich unison of mingled prayer, 
The melody of hearts in heavenly air. 

Thence duly should arise ; 
Lifting th' eternal hope, th' adoring breath, 
Of spirits, not to be disjoin'd by death, 

Up to the starry skies. 

There, dost thou well believe, no storm should come 
To mar the stillness of that angel-home ; — 

There should thy slumbers be 
Weigh'd down with honey-dew, serenely bless'd, 
Like theirs who first in Eden's grove took rest 

Under some balmy tree. 

Love, Love! thou passionate in joy and woe ! 
And canst thou hope for cloudless peace below — 

Here, where bright things must die ? 
Oh, thou ! that wildly worshipping, dost shed 
On the frail altar of a mortal head 

Gifts of infinity ! 

Thou must be still a trembler, fearful Love! 
Danger seems gathering from beneath, above. 

Still round thy precious things ; 
Thy stately pine-tree, or thy gracious rose, 
In their sweet shade can yield thee no repose. 

Here, where the blight hath wings. 

And, as a flower with some fine sense imbued 
To shrink before the wind's vicissitude. 

So in thy prescient breast 
Are lyre-strings quivering with prophetic thrill 
To the low footstep of each coming ill ; 

— Oh ! canst Tlwu dream of rest ? 



Bear up thy dream ! thou mighty and thou weak! 
Heart, strong as death, yet as a reed to break, 

As a flame, tempest-sway'd ! 
He that sits calm on high is yet the source 
Whence thy soul's current hath its troubled course, 

He that great deep hath made ! 

Will He not pity? — He whose searching eye 
Reads all the secrets of thine agony ?— 

Oh ! pray to be forgiven 
Thy fond idolatry, thy blind excess, 
And seek with Him that bower of blessedness — 

Love ! thy sole home is heaven ! 



BOOKS AND FLOWERS. 



La vue d' una fleur caresse mon imagination, et flatte 
mes sens a un point inexprimable. Suns le tranquille 
abvi du toil paternel, j'etais nourrie des renf'unce avec 
des fleurs et des livres ;— dans I'etroite enceinte d'une pri- 
son, au milieu des fers imposies par la tyrannie, j'oublie 
I'injustice des hommes, leurs sottises et mes mau,\ avec 
des livres et des fleurs. Madame Roland 



Come, let me make a sunny realm around thee, 
Of thought and beauty ! Here are books and 
flowers. 
With spells to loose the fetter which hath bound 
thee. 
The ravell'd coil of this world's feverish hours. 

The soul of song is in these deathless pages. 
Even as the odour in the flower enshrined; 

Here the crown'd spirits of departed ages 
Have left the silent melodies of mind. 

Their thoughts, that strove with time, and change 

and anguish. 

For some high place where faith her wing might 

rest, 

Are burning here ; a flame thatmay not languish. 

Still pointing upward to that bright hill's crest ! 

Their grief, the veil'd infinity exploring 
For treasures lost, is here ;— their boundless love 

Its mighty streams of gentleness outpouring 
On all things round, and clasping all above. 

And the bright beings, their own heart's creations. 
Bright, yet all human, here are breathing still ; 

Conflicts, and agonies, and exultations 
Are here, and victories of prevailing will! 

Listen, oh ! listen, let their high words cheer thee ! 

Their swan-like music ringing through all woes, 
Let my voice bring their holy influence near thee. 

The Elysian air of their divine repose ! 

Or wouldst thou turn to earth? JVoJ earth allfur- 
row'd 

By the old traces of man's toil and care, 
But the green peaceful world that never sorrow'd. 

The world of leaves, and dews, and summer air ! 

Look on these flowers ! As o'er an altar shedding. 
O'er Milton's page, soft light from colour'd urns ; 

They are the links, man's heart to nature wedding. 
When to her breast the prodigal returns. 

They are from lone wild places, forest dingles. 
Fresh banksof many a low- voiced hidden stream. 

Where the sweet star of eve looks down and min- 
gles 
Faint lustre with the water-lily's gleam. 

They are from where the soft winds play in glad- 
ness. 

Covering the turf with flowery blossom-showers; 
^Too richly dower'd, O friend! are roe for sadness, 

Look on an empire— mind and nature— ours ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



227 



FOR A PICTURE OF ST. CECILIA ATTENDED 
BY ANGELS. 



How rich that forehead's calm expanse ! 
How bright that heavenKjirected glance ! 
— Waft her to glory, winged powers, 

Ere sorrow be renew'd, 
And intercourse with mortal hours 
Bring back an humbler mood ! 

IVordsworth. 



How can that eye, with inspiration beaming, 
Wear yet so deep a cahn ? — Oh, child of song ! 

Is not the music-land a world of dreaming, 
Where forms of sad bewildering beauty throng? 

Hath it not sounds from voices long departed 7 
Echoes of tones that rung in childhood's ear? 

Low haunting whispers, which the weary-hearted, 
Stealing'midst crowds away, have wept to hear? 

No, not to thee ! — thy spirit, meek, yet queenly, 
On its own starry height, beyond all this, 

Floating triumphantly and yet serenely. 
Breathes no faint under-tone through songs of 
bliss ! 

Say by what strain, through cloudless ether swell- 
ing. 
Thou hast drawn down those wanderers from 
the skies ? 
Bright guests ! even such as left of yore their 
dwelling. 
For the deep cedar shades of Paradise ! 

What strain ?— oh ! not the Nightingale's when 
showering 

Her own heart's life drops on the burning lay, 
She stirs the young woods in the days of flowering, 

And pours her strength, but not her grief away : 

And not the E.Kile's — when 'midst lonely billows 
He wakes the Alpine notes his mother sung. 

Or blends them with the sigh of alien willows, 
Where, murmuring to the wind, his harp is hung. 

And not the Pilgrim's — though his thoughts be holy. 
And sweet his Ave song, when day grows dim, 

Yet as he journeys, pensively and slowly. 
Something of sadness floats thro' that low hymn. 

Bnt thou ! — the spirit which at eve is filling 
All the hush'd air and reverential sky. 

Founts, leaves, and flowers, with solemn rapture 
thrilling, 
This is the soul of thy rich harmony. 

This bears up high those breathings of devotion 
Wherein the currents of thy heart gush free ; 

Therefore no world of sad and vain emotion 
Is the dream-haunted music land for thee. 



THE VOICE OF THE WAVES. 



WRITTEN NEAR THE SCENE OF A RECENT SHIPWRECIC. 



How perfect was the calm ! It seem'd no sleep, 

No mood, which season takes away or brings : 
I could have fancied that the mighty deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 
********* 
But welcome fortitude and patient cheer, 
And frequent sights of what is to be borne ! 

Wordsworth. 



Answer, ye chiming waves ! 

That now in sunshine sweep; 
Speak to me from thy hidden caves, 

Voice of the solemn deep ! 



Hath man's lone spirit here 

With storms in battle striven ? 
Where all is now so calmly clear. 

Hath anguish cried to heaven ? 

— Then the sea's voice arose. 

Like an earthquake's under-tone : 
" Mortal, the strife of human woes 

Where hath not nature known ? 

" Here to the quivering mast 

Despair hath wildly clung. 
The shriek upon the wind hath past, 

Tlie midnight sky hath rung. 

" And the youthful and the brave 

With their beauty and renown. 
To the hollow chambers of the wave 

In darkness have gone down. 

" They are vanish'd from their place- 
Let their homes and heartlis make moan ! 

But the rolling waters keep no trace 
Of pang or conflict gone." 

— Alas! thou haughty deep! 

The strong, the sounding far ! 
My heart before thee dies,— I weep 

To think on what we are ! 

To think that so we pass. 

High hope, and thought, and mind, 

Ev'n as the breath-stain from the glass, 
Leaving no sign behind ! 

Saw'st thou naught else, thou main 

Thou and the midnight sky? 
Naught save the struggle, brief and vain. 

The parting agony ? 

— And the sea's voice replied, 

" Here nobler things have been ! 
Power with the valiant when they died, 

To sanctify the scene : 

" Courage, in fragile form. 

Faith, trusting to the last. 
Prayer, breathing heavenwards thro' the storm, 

But all alike have pass'd." 

Sound on, thou haughty sea! 

These have not pass'd in vain ; 
My soul awakes, my hope springs free 

On victor wings again. 

TVwn, from thine empire driven, 

May'st vanish with thy powers ; 
But, by the hearts that here have striven, 

A loftier doom is ours ! 



THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 



I seem like one 
Who treads alone 

Some banquet-hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled, 
Whose garlands dead. 

And ajl but me departed. 



Peest thou yon gray gleaming hall, 
Where the deep elm-shadows fall ? 
Voices that have left the earth 

Long ago, 
Still are murmuring round its hearth, 

Soft and low : 
Ever there ; yet one alone 
Hath the gift to hear their tone. 

Guests come thither, and depart, 
Free of step, and light of heart; 
Children with sweet visions bless'd, 
In the haunted chambers rest ; 



228 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



One alone unslumbering lies 
When the night hath seal'd all eyes, 
One quick heart and watchful ear, 
Listening for those whispers clear. 

Seest thou where the woodbine flowers 
O'er yon low porch hang in showers? 
Startling faces of the dead, 

"PaJe, yet sweet, 
One lone woman's entering tread 

There still meet ! 
Some with young smooth foreheads fair, 
Faintly shining through bright hair ; 
Some with reverend locks of snow — 
All, all buried long ago! 

AU, from under deep sea-waves. 

Or the flowers of foreign graves. 

Or the old and banner'd aisle. 

Where their high tombs gleam the while ; 

Rising, wandering, floating by. 

Suddenly and silently, 

Through their earthly home and place. 

But amidst another race. 

Wherefore, unto one alone. 

Are those sounds and visions known ? 

Wherefore hath that spell of power 

Dark and dread. 
On her soul, a baleful dower, • 

Thus been shed ? 
Oh! in those deep-seeing eyes. 
No strange gift of mystery lies! 
She is lone where once she moved. 
Fair, and happy, and beloved! 

Sunny smiles were glancing round her. 
Tendrils of kind hearts had bound her; 
Now those silver chords are broken, 
Those bright looks have left no token ; 
Not one trace on all the earth. 
Save her memory of their mirth. 
She is lone and lingering now. 
Dreams have gather'd o'er her brow, 
'Midst gay songs and children's play. 
She is dwelling far away ; 
Seeing what none else may see — 
Haunted still her place must be ! 



O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 

This piece was suggested by a picture in the posses- 
sion of Mis. Lawrence, of Wavertree Hall.— It repre- 
sents the '' Hero's Child" of Campbell's Poem, seated 
beside a solitary tomb of rock, marked with a cross, in 
a wild and desert place. A tempest seems gathering in the 
angry skies above her, but the attitude of the drooping 
figure expresses the utter carelessness of desolation, and 
the countenance speaks of entire abstraction from all 
external objects.— A bow and quiver lie beside her, 
amongst the weeds and wild flowers of the desert. 



I fled the home of grief 

At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall, 
I found the helmet of my Chief, 

His bow still hanging on our wall ; 
And took it down, and vow'd to rove 

This desert place, a huntress bold ; 
Nor would I change my buried love 

For any heart of living mould, 



Campbell. 



The sleep of storms is dark upon the skies, 
The weight of oinens heavy in the cloud:— 

Bid the lorn huntress of the desert rise, 

Andgirdthe form whose beautygrief hathbow'd, 

And leave the tomb, as tombs are left— alone. 

To the star's vigil, and the wind's wild moan. 



Tell her of revelries in bower and hall. 
Where gems are glittering, and bright wine is 
pour'd ; 
Where to glad measures chiming footsteps fall. 
And soul seems gushing from the harp's full 
chord ; 
And richer flowers amid fair tresses wave. 
Than the sad "Love lies bleeding'''' of the grave. 

Oh! little know'st thou of the o'ermastering spell. 
Wherewith love binds the spirit strong in pain. 

To the spot hallow'd by a wild farewell, 
A parting agony, — intense, yet vain, 

A look — and darkness when its gleam hath flown, 

A voice— and silence when its words are gone ! 

She hears thee not ; her full, deep, fervent heart 
Is set in her dark eyes; — and they are bound 

Unto that cross, that shrine, that world apart. 
Where faithful love hath sanctified the ground ; 

And love with death striven long by tear and 
prayer. 

And anguish frozen into still despair. 

Yet on her spirit hath arisen at last 
A light, a joy, of its own wanderings born ; 

Around her path a vision's glow is cast. 
Back, back, her lost one comes, in hues of morn!* 

For her the gulf is fill'd — the dark night fled ; 

Whose mystery parts the living and the dead. 

And she can pour forth in such converse high. 
All her soul's tide of love, the deep, the strong. 

Oh ! lonelier far, perchance, tky destiny. 
And more forlorn, amidst the world's gay throng, 

Than her's — the queen of that majestic gloom. 

The tempest, and the desert, and the tomb! 



BRIGAND LEADER AND HIS WIFE. 



SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF EASTLAKE'S. 



Dark chieftain of the heath and height ! 
Wild feaster on the hills by night ! 
Seest thou the stormy sunset's glow 
Flung back by glancing spears below? 
Now for one strife of stern despair! 
The foe hath track'd thee to thy lair. 

Thou, against whom the voice of blood 
Hath risen from rock and lonely wood ; 
And in whose dreams a moan should be, 
Not of the water, nor the tree ; 
Haply thine own last hour is nigh, — 
Yet Shalt thou not forsaken die. 

There 's one that pale beside thee stands. 
More true than all thy mountain bands! 
She will not shrink in doubt and dread. 
When the balls whistle round thy head : 
Nor leave thee, though thy closing eye 
No longer may to her's reply. 

Oh ! many a soft and quiet grace 
Hath faded from her form and face ; 
And manv a thought, the fitting guest 
Of woman's meek religious breast, 
Hath perish'd in her wanderings wide, 
Through the deep forests, by thy side. 

Yet, mournfully surviving all, 

A flower upon a ruin's wall, 

A friendless thing whose lot is cast. 

Of lovely ones to be the last ; 

Sad, but unchanged through good and iU, 

Thine is her lone devotion still. 



'A son of light, a lovely form. 
He comes, and makes her glad." 



CampbdU 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



229 



And oh ! not wholly lost the heart 
Where that undying love hath part ; 
Not worthless all, though far and long 
From home estranged, and guided wrong 
Yet may its depths hy heaven be stirr'd, 
Its prayer for thee be pour'd and heard I 



CHILD'S RETURN FROM THE WOODLANDS. 



All good and guiltless as thou art, 
Some transient griefs will touch thy heart- 
Griefs that along thy alter'd face 
Will breathe a more subduing grace, 
Than even those looks of joy that lie 
On the soft cheek of infancy. 



Wilson, 



Hast thou been in the woods with the honey-bee? 
Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free? 
With the hare thro' the copses and dingles wild? 
With the butterfly over the heath, fair child ? 
Yes : the light fa!! of thy bounding feet 
Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat ; 
Yet hast thou ranged the green forest-dells 
And brought back "a treasure of buds and bells. 

Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song 
Breathed n'er the naines of that flowery throng ; 
The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim. 
The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim ; 
These are old words, that have made each grove 
A dreaming haunt for romance and love ; 
Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie, 
A place for the gushings of poesy. 

Thou know'st not the light wherewith fairy lore 
Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o'er ; 
Enough for thee are the dews that sleep. 
Like hidden gems, in the flower-urns deep ; 
Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell 
'Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell ; 
And the scent by the blossoming sweet-briers shed. 
And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth's 
head. 

Oh ! happy child, in thy fawn-like glee I 
What is remembrance or thought to thee ? 
Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring, 
O'er thy green pathway their colours fling ; 
Bind theiii in chaplet and wild festoon — 
What if to droop and to perish soon ? 
Nature hath inines of such wealth— and thou 
Never wilt prize its delights as now I 

For a day is coming to quell the tone 

That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one ! 

And to dim thy brow with a touch of care, 

Under the gloss of its clustering hair ; 

And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes 

Into the stillness of autumn skies ; 

And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part, 

'Midst the hidden things of each human heart. 

Yet shall we mourn, gentle child ! for this ? 
Life hath enough of yet holier bliss ! 
Such be thy portion !— the bliss to look. 
With a reverent spirit, through nature's book ; 
By fount, by forest, by river's line. 
To track the paths of a love divine ; 
To read its deep meanings — to see and hear 
God in earth's garden— and not to fear ! 



THE FAITH OF LOVE. 



Thotj hast watch'd beside the bed of death. 

Oh fearless human love 1 
Thy lip received the last faint breath. 

Ere the spirit fled above. 
Thy prayer was heard by the parting bier, 

In a low and a farewell tone. 
Thou hast given the grave both flower and tear— 

—Oh love ! thy task is done. 



Then turn thee from each pleasant spot 
Where thou wert wont to rove, 

For there the friend of thy soul is not, 
Nor the joy of thy youth, oh love ! 

Thou wilt meet but mournful memory there, 
Her dreams in the grove she weaves, 

With echoes filling the summer air, 
With sighs the trembling leaves. 

Then turn thee to the world again. 
From those dim haunted bowers. 

And shut thine ear to the wild sweet strain 
That tells of vanish'd hours. 

And wear not on thine aching heart 

The image of the dead. 
For the tie is rent that gave thee part 

In the gladness its beauty shed. 

And gaze on the pictured smile no more 

That thus can life outlast, 
All between parted souls is o'er; — 

— Love ! love ! forget the past ! 

" Voice of vain boding ! away, be still ! 

Strive not against the faith 
That yet my bosom with light can fill, 

Unquench'd, and undimm'd by death : 

" From the pictured smile I will not turn. 

Though sadly now it shine; 
Nor quit the shades that in whispers mourn 

For the step once link'd with mine : 

" Nor shut mine ear to the song of old. 
Though its notes the pang renew, 

—Such memories deep in my heart I hold, 
To keep it pure and true. 

" By the holy instinct of my heart, 

By the hope that bears me on, 
I have still my own undying part 

In the deep affection gone. 

" By the presence that about me seems 
Through night and day to dwell. 

Voice of vain bodings and fearful dreams ! 
— I have breathed no last farewell !" 



THE SISTER'S DREAM. 

Suggested by a picture, in which a young girl is re- 
presented as sleeping, and visited during her slumbers by 
the spirits of her departed sisters. 



She sleeps!— but not the free and sunny sleep 

That lightly on the brow of childhood lies : 

Though happy be her rest, and soft, and deep, 

Yet, ere it sunk upon her shadow'd eyes. 
Thoughts of past scenes and kindred graves o'er- 

swept 
Her soul's meek stillness:— she had pray'd and 
wept. 

And now in visions to her couch they come. 
The early lost— the beautiful— the dead— 

That unto her bequeath'd a mournful home. 
Whence with their voices all sweet laughter fled ; 

They rise— the sisters of her youth arise, 

As from the world where no frail blossom dies. 

And well the sleeper knows them not of earth- 
Not as they were when binding up the flowers, 

Telling wild legends round the vvinter-hearth, 
Braidins their long fair hair for festal hours; 

These things are past;— a spiritual gleam, 

A solemn glory, robes tliem in that dream. 

Yet, if the glee of life's fresh budding years 
In those pure aspects may no more be read, 

Thence, too, hath sorrow melted,— and the tears 
Which o'er their mother's holy dust they shed. 

Are all effaced ; there earth hath left no sign 

Save its deep love, still touching every line. 



230 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



But oh ! more soft, more tender, breathing more 
A thought of pity, than in vanish'd days ; 

While hovering silently and brightly o'er 
The lone one's head, they meet her spirit's gaze 

With their immortal eyes, that seem to say, 

" Yet, sister, yet we love tliee, come away !" 

'Twill fade, the radiant dream ! and will she not 
Wake with more painful yearning at her heart? 

Will not lier home seem yet a lonelier spot. 
Her task more sad, when those briglit shadows 
part ? 

And the green summer after them look dim, 

And sorrow's tone be in tlie bird's wild hymn? 

But let her hope be strong, and let the dead 
Visit her soul in heaven's calm beauty still, 

Be their names utler'd, be their memory spread 
Yet round the place they never more may fill ! 

All is not over with earth's broken tie — 

Witere, where should sisters love, if not on high? 



WRITTEN AFTER VISITING A TOMB, 

JVcar Woodstock, in the County of Kilkenny. 

Yes ! hide beneath the mouldering heap, 

The undelighting, slighted thing ; 
There, in the cold earth, buried deep, 

In silence let it wait the spring. 

Mrs. Tighe^s Poem oil the Lily. 



PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF FIESCO. 



I STOOD where the lip of song lay low, 
Where the dust had gather'd on beauty's brow; 
Where stillness hung on the heart of love, 
And a marble weeper kejrt watch above. 

I stood in the silence of lonely thought, 
Of deep affections that inly wrought. 
Troubled, and dreamy, and dim with fear— 
— They knew themselves exiled spirits here ! 

Then didst thou pass me in radiance by, 
Child of the sunbeam, bright butterfly I 
Thou that dost bear on thy fairy wings, 
No burden of mortal sufferings ! 

Thou wert flitting past that solemn tomb. 
Over a bright world of joy and bloom, 
And strangely I felt, as I saw thee shine, 
The all that sever'd thy life and mine. 

Mine, with its inborn mysterious things, 

Of love and grief, its unfathom'd springs. 

And quick thoughts wandering o'er earth and sky. 

With voices to question eternity! 

Thine, in its reckless and joyous way. 
Like an embodied breeze at play ! 
Child of the sunlight !— thou winged and free ! 
One moment, one moment, I envied thee! 

Thou art not lonely, though born to roam. 
Thou hast no longings that pine for home. 
Thou seek'st not the haunts of the bee and bird. 
To fly from the sickness of hope deferr'd : 

In thy brief being, no strife of mind. 
No boundless passion is deeply shrined ; 
While I— as I gazed on thy swift flight by, 
One hour of my soul seem'd infinity ! 

And she, that voiceless below me slept, 
Flow'd not her song from a heart that wept ? 
— O love and song, though of heaven your pov.'ers, 
Dark is your fate in this world of ours ! 

Yet, ere I turn'd from that silent place, 
Or ceased from watching thy sunny race, 
Thou, even thou, on those glancing wings. 
Didst waft me visions of brighter things ! 

Thou, that dost image the freed soul's birth. 
And its flight away o'er the mists of earth. 
Oh ! fitly thy path is through flowers that rise 
Round the dark chamber \vhere genius lies ! 



As translated from the German of Schiller, by Colonel 
D'Aguilar, and performed at the Theatre Royal, Dublin, 
December, 1832. 



Too long apart, a bright but sever'd band. 

The mighty minstrels of the Rhine's fair land, 

Majestic strains, but not for us, had sung, — 

Moulding to melody a stranger tongue. 

Brave hearts leap'd proudly to their words of 

power. 
As a true sword bounds forth in battle's hour! 
Fair eyes rain'd homage o'er the impassion'd lays, 
In loving tears, more eloquent than praise ; 
While we, far distant, knew not, dream'd not 

aught 
Of the high marvels by that magic wrought. 
But let the barriers of the sea give way. 
When mind sweeps onward with a conqueror's 

sway ! 
And let the Rhine divide high souls no more 
From mingling on its old heroic shore, 
Which, e'en like ours, brave deeds through many 

an age. 
Have made the Poet's own free heritage ! 

To us. though faintly, may a wandering tone 
Of the far minstrelsy at last be known ; 
Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning tear. 
Have sprung to greet, must not be strangers here, 
And if by one, more used, on march and heath. 
To the shrill bugle, than the muse's breath. 
With a warm heart the offering hath been brought, 
And in a trusting loyalty of thought, — 
So let it be received! — a Soldier's hand 
Bears to the breast of no ungenerous land 
A seed of foreign shores. O'er this fair clime, 
Since Tara heard the harp of ancient time. 
Hath song held empire ; then if not with Fam.e, 
Let the green isle with kindness bless his aim. 
The joy, the power, of kindred song to spread. 
Where once that harp " the soul of music shed !" 



A FAREWELL TO ABBOTSFORD. 



These lines were given to Sir Walter Scott, at the 
gate of Abbotsford, in the summer of 1823. He wag 
then apparently in the vigour of an existence whose 
energies promised long continuance; and the glance of 
his quick, smiling eye, and the very sound of his kindly 
voice, seemed to kindle the gladness of his own sunny 
and benignant spirit in all who had the happiness of ap- 
proaching him. 



Home of the gifted ! fare thee well. 

And a blessing on thee rest ; 
While the heather waves its purple bell 

O'er moor and mountain crest; 
While stream to stream around thee calls. 

And braes with broom are drest. 
Glad be the harping in thy halls— 

A blessing on thee rest ! 

While the high voice from thee sent forth. 

Bids rock and cairn reply. 
Wakening the spirits of the North, 

Like a chieftain's gathering cry; 
While its deep master-tones hold sway, 

As a king's o'er every breast, 
Home of the Legend and the Lay 

A blessing on thee rest. 

Joy to thy hearth, and board, and bower ! 

Long honours to thy line ! 
And hearts of proof, and hands of power, 

And bright names worthy thine ! 
By the merry step of childhood still 

May thy free sward be prest ! 
— While one proud pulse in the land can thrill, 

A blessing on thee rest! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



231 



THE VICTOR. 



*' De tout ce qui t' aimoit n' est-il plus rien qui t' aime ?" 

Lamarti-ne, 



Mighty ones, Love and Death ! 
Ye arc the strong in this world of ours. 
Ye meet at the banquets, ye dwell 'midst the 
flowers, 

— Which hatli the conqueror's wreath ? 

Thou art the victor. Love ! 
Thou art the fearless, the crown'd, the free, 
The strength of the battle is given to thee. 

The spirit from above ! 

Thou hast look'd on Death, and smiled ! 
Thou hast borne up the reed-like and fragile form. 
Through the waves of the fight, throughthe rush 
of the storm. 

On field, and flood, and wild! 

No ! — Thou art the victor. Death ! 
Thou comest, and where is that which spoke. 
Prom the depths of the eye, when the spirit woke? 

— Gone with the fleeting breath ! 

Thou comest — and what is left 
Of all that loved us, to say if aught 
Yel loves — yet answers the burning thought 

Of the spirit lone and reft ? 

Silence is where thou art ! 
Silently there must kindred meet. 
No smile to cheer, and no voice to greet, 

No bounding of heart to heart! 

Boast not thy victory, Death ! 
It is but as the cloud's o'er the sunbeam's power, 
It is but as the winter's o'er leaf and flower, 

That slumber, the snow beneath. 

It is but as a Tyrant's reign 
O'er the voice and the lip which he bids be still : 
But the fiery thought, and the lofty will, 

Are not for him to chain ! 

They shall soar his might above ! 
And thus with the root whence affection springs, 
Though buried, it is not of mortal things — 

Thou art the victor. Love ! 



SCENE IN A DALECARLIAN MINE. 



" Oh ! fondly, fervently, those two had loved. 
Had mingled minds in Love's own perfect trust : 
Had watch'd bright sunsets, dreamt of blissful years : 
And thus they met. 



" Haste, vifith your torches, haste ! make firelight 

round !" 
— They speed, they press — what hath the minor 

found? 
Relic or treasure, giant sword of old? 
Gems bedded deep, rich veins of burning gold ? 
— Not so— the dead, the dead ! An awe-struck 

band. 
In silence gathering round the silent stand, 
Chain'd by one feeling, hushing e'en their breath, 
Before the thing that,"in the might of death. 
Fearful, yet beautiful, amidst them lay — 
A sleeper, dreaming not ! — a youth with hair 
Making a sunny gleam (how sadly fair!) 
O'er his cold brow : no shadow of decay 
Had touch'd those pale bright features— yet he 

wore 
A mien of other days, a garb of yore. 
Who could unfold that mystery ? From the throng 
A woman wildly broke ; her eye was dim, 
As if through many tears, through vigils long. 
Through weary strainings :— all had been for him ! 



Those two had loved ! And there he lay, the dead, 
In hts youth's flower— and she, the living, stood 
With her gray hair, whence hue and gloss had 

fled— ° 

And wasted form, and cheek, whose flushing blood 
Had long since ebb'd— a meeting sad and strange ! 
—Oh ! are not meetings in this world of change 
Sadder than partings oft ? She stood there, still, 
And mute, and gazing, all her soul to fill 
With the loved face once more— the young, fair 

face, 
'Midst that rude cavern touch'd with sculpture's 

grace. 
By torchlight and by death :— until at last 
From her deep heart the spirit of the past 
Gush'd in low broken tones:— "And there thou 

art! 
And thus we meet, that loved, and did but part 
As for a few brief hours!— My friend, my friend ! 
First-love, and only one ! Is this the end 
Of hope deferr'd, youth blighted? Yet thy brow 
Still wears its own proud beauty, and thy cheek 
Smiles— how unchanged !— while I, the worn, and 

weak. 
And faded— oh! thou wouldst but scorn me now, 
If thou couldst look on me!— a wither'd leaf, 
Sear'd— though for thy sake— by the blast of grief! 
Better to see thee thus ! For thou didst go, 
Bearing my image on thy heart, I know. 
Unto the dead. My Ulric ! through the night 
How have I call'd thee ! With tlie morning light 
How have I watch'd for thee !— wept, wander'd, 

pray'd, 
Met the fierce mountain tempest, undismay'd, 
In search of thee ! Bound my worn life to one. 
One torturing hope ! Now let me die ! 'Tisgone. 
Take thy betfoth'd !"— And on his breast she fell— 
—Oh! since their youth's last passionate farewell. 
How changed in all but love !— the true, the strong. 
Joining in death whom life had parted long ! 
—They had one grave— one lonely bridal bed — 
No friend, no kinsman, there a tear to shed ! 
His name had ceased — her heart outlived each tie. 
Once more to look on that dead face— and die ! 



GREEK SONGS. 



THE STORM OF DELPHI.* 

Far through the Delphian shades 

An Eastern trumpet rung! 
And the startled eagle rush'd on high. 
With a sounding flight through the'fiery sky. 
And banners o'er the shadowy glades 

To the sweeping winds were flung. 

Banners, with deep-red gold 

All waving, as a flame. 
And a fitful glance from the bright spear-head 
On the dim wood-paths of the mountain shed, 
And a peal of Asia's war-notes, told 

That in arms the Persian came. 

He came with starry gems 

On his quiver and his crest; 
With starry gems, at whose heart the day 
Of the cloudless orient burning lay. 
And they cast a gleam on the laurel-stems. 

As onvi^ard his thousands press'd. 

But a gloom fell o'er their way, 

And a heavy moan went by ! 
A moan, yet not like the wind's low swell. 
When its voice grows wild 'midst cave and deli'. 
But a mortal murmur of dismay. 

Or a warrior's dying sigh! 

* See the account cited from Herodotus, in Mitford's Greece. 



232 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



A gloom fell o'er their way I 

'Twas not the shadow cast 
By the dark pine-boughs, as they cross'd the blue 
Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue; 
— The air was fill'd with a mightier sway, 

— But on the spearmen pass'd ! 

And hollow, to their tread. 

Came the echoes of the ground. 
And banners droop'd as with dews o'erborne, 
And the wailing blast of the battle-horn 
Had an alter'd cadence, dull and dead, 

Of strange foreboding sound. 

— But they blew a louder strain. 
When the steep defiles were pass'd ! 
And afar the crown'd Parnassus rose. 
To shine through heaven with his radiant snows, 
And in golden light the Delphian fane 
Before them stood at last I 

In golden liglit it stood, 
'Midst the laurels gleaming lone, 
For the Sun-God, yet, with a lovely smile, 
O'er its graceful pillars look'd awhile. 
Though the stormy shade on cliff and wood 
Grew deep, round its mountain-throne. 

And the Persians gave a shout ! 

But the marble walls replied 
With a clash of steel, and a sullen roar 
Like heavy wheels on the ocean-shore, 
And a savage trumpet's note peal'd out. 

Till their hearts for terror died I 

On the armour of the God, 
Then a viewless hand was laid ; 
There was helm and spear, with a clanging din. 
And corslet brought from the shrine within, 
From the inmost shrine of the dread abode. 
And before its front array'd. 

And a sudden silence fell 
^ Through the dim and loaded air ! 
On the wild bird's wing, and the myrtle-spray. 
And the very founts in their silvery way. 
With a weight of sleep came down the spell. 
Till man grew breathless there. 

But the pause was broken soon ! 

'T was not by song or lyre ; 
For the Delphian maids had left their bowers. 
And the hearths were lone in the city towers, 
But there burst a sound through the misty noon, 

That battle-noon of tire! 

It burst from earth and heaven! 

It roird from crag and cloud ! 
For a moment of the mountain-blast. 
With a thousand stormy voices pass'd. 
And the purple gloom of the sky was riven, 

When the thunder peal'd aloud. 

And the lightnings in their play 
Flash'd forth, like javelins thrown ; 
Like sun-darts wing'd from the silver bow. 
They smote the spear and the turban'd brow. 
And the bright gems fie w from the crests li ke spray. 
And the banners were struck down I 



And the massy oak-boughs crash'd 

To the fire-bolt from on high. 
And the forest lent its billowy roar. 
While the glorious tempest onward bore. 
And lit the streams, as they foam'd and dash'd 

With the fierce rain sweeping by. 

Then rush'd the Delphian men 

On the pale and scatter'd host; 
Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave. 
They rush'd from the dim Corycian cave. 
And the singing blast o'er wood and glen 

Roird on, with the spears they tost. 



There were cries of wild dismay. 
There were shouts of vs'arrior-glee. 
There were savage sounds of the tempest's mirth, 
That shook the realm of their eagle-birth ; 
But the mount of song, when they died away, 
Still rose, with its temple, free ! 

And the Paean swell'd ere long, 

lo Pajan I from the fane ; 
lo Pffian ! for the war array. 
On the crown'd Parnassus, riven that day! 
— Thou Shalt rise as free, thou mount of song ! 

With thy bounding streams again. 



II. 
THE BOWL OF LIBERTY. 



Before the fiery sun, 
The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye. 
In the free air, and on the war-field won, 
Our fathers crown'd the Bowl of Liberty. 

Amidst the tombs they stood. 
The tombs of heroes! with the solemn skies. 
And the wide plain around where patriot-blood 
Had steep'd the soil in hues of sacrifice. 

Theycall'd the glorious dead. 
In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh. 
And pour'd rich odours o'er their battle-bed, 
And bade them to the rite of Liberty. 

They call'd them from the shades, 
The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell 
How softer light th' immortal clime pervades. 
And music floats o'er meads of Asphodel. 

Then fast the bright-red wine'*' 
Flow'd to their manes who taught the world to die, 
And made the land's green turf a living shrine. 
Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty. 

So the rejoicing earth 
Took from her vines again the blood she gave. 
And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birtli 
From the free soil thus hallow'd to the brave. 

TVe have the battle-fields, 
The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky, 
We have the founts the purple vintage yields; 
— When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty ! 



III. 
THE VOICE OF SCIO. 



A VOICE from Scio's isle, 
A voice of song, a voice of old. 
Swept far as cloud or billow roli'd. 

And earth was hush'd the while. 

The souls of nations woke ! 
Where lies the land whose hills among. 
That voice of Victory hath not rung, 

As if a trumpet spoke ? 

To sky, and sea, and shore 
Of those whose blood, on Ilion's plain. 
Swept from the rivers to the main, 

A glorious tale it bore. 

Still by our sun-bright deep, 
With all tile fame that fiery lay 
Threw round them, in its rushing way. 

The sons of battle sleep. 



* For an account of this ceremony, anciently performed in com- 
memoration of the battle of Platsea, see Potter^s Jintiquitits of 
Greece, vol. i. SS9. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



233 



And kings tlieir turf have crown'd! 
And pilgrims o'er ihe foaming wave 
Brought garlands there : so rest the brave, 

Who thus their bard have found ! 

A voice from Scio's isle, 
A voice as deep hath risen again! 
As far shall peal its thrilling strain, 

Wliere'er our sun may smile ! 

Let not its tones expire ! 
Sucli power to waken earth and heaven, 
And might and vengeance ne'er was given 

To mortal song or lyre I 

Know ye not whence it comes? 
— From ruin'd hearths, from burning fanes. 
From kindred blood on yon red plains. 

From desolated homes! 

'Tis with us through the night ! 
'Tis on our hills, 'tis in our sky — 
Hear it, ye heavens I when swords flash high. 

O'er the mid-waves of fight ! 



IV. 
THE URN AND SWORD. 



Thet sought for treasures in the tomb. 
Where gentler hands were wont to spread 
Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom, 
And sunny ringlets, for the dead.* 

They scatter'd far the greensward-heap. 
Where once those hands the bright wine pour'd ; 
— What found they in the home of sleep? 
— A mouldering urn, a shiver'd sword ! 

An urn, which held the dust of one 
Who died when hearths and shrines were free; 
A sword, vi-hose work was proudly done. 
Between our mountains and the sea. 

And these are treasures! — undismay'd, 
Still for the sufl'ering land we trust. 
Wherein the past its fame hath laid. 
With freedom's sword, and valour's dust. 



THE MYRTLE-BOUGH. 



Still green along our sunny shore 

The flowering myrtle waves, 
As when its fragrant boughs of yore 

Were offer'd on the graves ; 
The graves, wherein our mighty men 
Had rest, unviolated then. 

Still green it waves ! as when the hearth 

Was sacred through the land ; 
And fearless was the banquet's mirth. 

And free the minstrel's hand; 
And guests, with shining myrtle crown'd, 
Sent the wreath'd lyre and winecup round. 

Still green ! as when on holy ground 
The tyrant's blood was pour'd : 

— Forget ye not what garlands bound 
The young deliverer's sword ! 

Though earth may shroud Harmodius now. 

We still have sword and myrtle-bough ! 

* See Potter's Grecian Antiquities, vol. ii. p. 234. 

30 



SONGS OF THE CID. 



The following ballads are not translations from the 
Spanish, but are founded upon some of the ' wild and 
wonderful' traditions preserved in llie romances of that 
language, and the ancient poem of the Cid. 



CID'S DEPARTURE INTO EXILE. 



With si.vty knights in his gallant train, 
Went forth the Canipeador of Spain ; 
For wild sierras and plains afar, 
He left tile lands of his own Bivar. (1) 

To march o'er field, and to watch in tent. 
From his home in good Castile he went ; 
To tlie wasting siege and the battle's van, 
—For the noble Cid was a banish'd man ! 

Through his olive-woods the morn-breeze play'd, 
And his native streams wild music made. 
And clear in the sunshine his vineyards lay. 
When for march and combat he took his way. 

With a thoughtful spirit his way he took. 
And he turn'd his steed for a parting look, 
For a parting look at his own fair towers ; 
—Oh! the Exile's heart hath weary hours! 

The pennons were spread, and the band array'd. 
But the Cid at the threshold a moment stay'd ; 
It was but a moment — the halls were lone. 
And the gates of his dwelling all open thrown. 

There was not a steed in the empty stall. 
Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall. 
Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door, 
Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor. (3) 

Then a dirn tear swell'd to the warrior's eye. 
As the voice of his native groves went by ; 
And lie said — " My foemen their wish have won — 
—Now the will of God be in all things done !" 

But the trumpet blew, with its note of cheer. 
And the winds of the morning swept off the tear, 
And the fields of his glory lay distant far, 
— He is gone from the towers of his own I3ivar! 



THE CID'S DEATH-BED. 

It was an hour of grief and fear 

Within 'Valencia's walls. 
When the blue spring-heaven lay still and clear 

Above her marble halls. 

There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes. 

And steps of hurrying feet. 
Where the Zatnbra's (3) notes were wont to rise 

Along the sunny street. 

It was an hour of fear and grief 

Oil bright Valencia's shore. 
For death was busy with her chief, 

The noble Campeador. 

The Moor-king's barks were on the deep, 

'With sounds and signs of war. 
For the Cid was passing to his sleep. 

In the silent Alcazar. 

No moan was heard through the towers of state. 

No weeper's aspect seen. 
But by the couch Xiinena sate. 

With pale yet steadfast mien. (4) 

Stillness was round the leader's bed. 

Warriors stood mournful nigh. 
And banners, o'er his glorious head, 

Were drooping heavily. 



234 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



And feeble grew the conquering hand, 

And cold the valiant breast ; 
— He had fought the battles of the land, 

And his hour was come to rest. 

What said the Ruler of the field ? 

— His voice is faint and low ; 
The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shield 

Hath louder accents now. 

" Raise ye no cry, and let no moan 

Be made when I depart ; 
The Moor must hear no dirge's tone, 

Be ye of mighty heart ! 

"Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpet-strain 
From your walls ring far and shrill, 

And fear ye not, for the saints of Spain 
Shall grant you victory still. 

" And gird my form with mail-array, 

And set me on my steed, 
So go ye forth on your funeral-way, 

And God shall give you speed. 

" Go with the dead in the front of war, 

All arm'd with sword and helm, 
And march by the camp of King Bucar, 

For the good Castilian realm.. 

" And let me slumber in the soil 

Which gave my fathers birth ; 
I have closed my day of battle-toil, 

And my course is done on earth." 

— Now wave, ye glorious banners, wave ! (5) 
Through the lattice a wind sweeps by. 

And the arms, o'er the death-bed of the brave. 
Send forth a hollow sigh. 

Now wave, ye banners of many a fight ! 

As the fresh wind o'er you sweeps ; 
The wind and the banners fall hush'd as night, 

The Campeador — he sleeps ! 

Sound the battle-horn on the breeze of morn. 
And swell out the trumpet's blast. 

Till the notes prevail o'er the voice of wail, 
For the noble Cid hath pass'd ! 



THE CID'S FUNERAL PROCESSION. 



The Moor had beleaguer'd Valencia's towers. 
And lances gleam'd up through her citron-bowers, 
And the tents of the desert had girt her plain. 
And camels were trampling the vines of Spain ; 
For the Cid was gone to rest. 

There were men from wilds where the death-wind 

sweeps. 
There were spears from hills where the lion sleeps. 
There were bows from the sands where the ostrich 

runs, 
For the shrill horn of Afric had call'd her sons 
To the battles of the West. 

The midnight bell, o'er the dim seas heard 
Like the roar of waters, the air had stirr'd ; 
The stars v.'ere shining o'er to„wer and wave. 
And the camp lay hush'd as a wizard's cave ; 

But the Christians woke that night. 

They rear'd the Cid on his barbed steed. 
Like a warrior mail'd for the hour of need. 
And they fi.x'd the sword in the cold right hand 
Which had fought so well for his fathers' land. 

And the shield from his neck hung bright. 

There was arming heard in Valencia's halls. 
There was vigil kept on the rampart vi'alls ; 
Stars had not faded, nor clouds turn'd red, 
When the knights had girded the noble dead. 
And the burial-train moved out. 



With a measured pace, as the pace of one. 
Was the still death-march of the host begun ; 
With a silent step went the cuirass'd bands. 
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands. 
And they gave no battle-shout. 

When the first went forth it was midnight deep. 
In heaven was the moon, in the camp was sleep. 
When the last through the city's gates had gone, 
O'er tent and rampart the bright day shone, 
With a sun-burst from the sea. 

There were knights five hundred went arm'd before. 
And Bermudez the Cid's green standard bore ; (b) 
To its last fair field, with the break of morn, 
Was the glorious banner in silence borne. 
On the glad wind streaming free. 

And the Campeador came stately then. 
Like a leader circled with steel-clad men ! 
The helmet was down o'er the lace of the dead, 
But his steed went proud, by a warrior led. 

For he knew that the Cid was there. 

He was there, the Cid, with his own good sword, 
And Ximena following her noble lord ; 
Her eye was solemn, her step was slow. 
But there rose not a sound of war or woe, 
Not a whisper on the air. 

The halls in Valencia were still and lone. 
The churches were empty, the masses done ; 
There was not a voice through the wide streets far. 
Nor a foot-fall heard in the Alcazar, 

— So the burial-train moved out. 

With a measured pace, as the pace of one. 
Was the still death-march of the host begun ; 
With a silent step went the cuirass'd bands 
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands ; 
— And they gave no battle-shout. 

But the deep hills peal'd with a cry ere long. 
When the Christians burst on the Paynim throng i 
With a sudden flash of the lance and spear. 
And a charge of the war-steed in full career. 
It was Alvar Faiiez came ! (7) 

He that was wrapt with no funeral shroud. 
Had pass'd before, like a threatening cloud ! 
And the storm rush'd down on the tented plain. 
And the Archer-Q,ueen(8) with her bands lay slain, 
For the Cid upheld his fame. 

Then a terror fell on the King Bucar, 
And the Libyan kings who had join'd his war ; 
And their hearts grew heavy, and died away. 
And their hands could not wield an assagay. 
For the dreadful things thej' saw ! 

For it seem'd where Minaya his onset made. 
There were seventy thousand knights array'd, 
All white as the snow on Nevada's steep, 
And they came like the foam of a roaring deep; 
— 'Twas a sight of fear and awe ! 

And the crested form of a warrior tall. 
With a sword of fire, went before them all ; 
With a sword of fire, and a banner pale, 
And a blood-red cross on his shadowy mail, 
He rode in the battle's van ! 

There was fear in the path of his dim white horse. 
There was death in the Giant-warrior's course I 
Where his banner stream'd with its ghostly light. 
Where his sword blazed out, there was hurrying 
flight. 

For it seem'd not the sword of man 1 

The field and the river grew darkly red. 
As the kings and leaders of Afric fled ; 
There was work for the men of the Cid that day ! 
— They were weary at eve, when they ceased to 
slay. 

As reapers whose task is done ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



23^ 



The liin^s and tlie leaders of Afric fled ! 
The sails of their galleys in haste were spread ; 
But the sea had its share of the Paynim-slain, 
And the bow of the desert was broke in Spain ; 
—So the Cid to his grave pass'd on I 



THE CID'S RISING. 



'TwAS the deep mid-watch of the silent night, 

And Leon in slumber lay, 
When a sound went forth, in rushing might. 
Like an army on its way ! (9) 
In the stillness of the hour, 
When the dreams of sleep have power, 
And men forget the day. 

Throujrh the dark and lonely streets it went, 

Till the slumberers woke in dread; 
The sound of a passing armament. 
With the charger's stony tread. 
There was heard no trumpet's peal, 
But the heavy tramp of steel. 
As a host's, to combat led. 

Through the dark and lonely streets it pass'd. 

And the hollow pavement rang. 
And the towers, as with a sweeping blast, 
Rock'd to the stormy clang ! 
But the march of the viewless train 
Went on to a royal fane, 
Where a priest his night-hymn sang. 

There was knocking that shook the marble floor. 

And a voice at the gate, which said — ■ 
" That the Cid Ruy Diez, the Campeador, 
Was there in his arms array'd ; 
And that with him, from the tomb. 
Had the Count Gonzalez come, 
With a host, uprisen to aid ! 

" And they came for the buried king that lay 

At rest in that ancient fane ; 

For he must be arm'd on the battle-day, 

With them to deliver Spain !" 

— Then the inarch went sounding on, 

And the Moors, by noontide sun. 

Were dust on 'Tolosa's plain. 



NOTES. 

NOTP 1. 
Bivar, the supposed birth-place of the Cid, was a castle, atout two 
leagues from Burgos. 

Note 2. 

Tornaba la cabeza, estabalos catando : 
Vio puertas abiertas, e uzos sin canados, 
Alcandaras vacias, sin pieties e sin mantos; 
E sin falcones, e siuadtorea mudados. 
Sospiro mio Cid. Poem of the Cid. 

Note 3. 

The zambra, a Moorish dance. When Valencia was taken by the 
Cid, many of the Moorish families chose to remain there, and reside 
under his government. 

Note 4. 
The calm fortitude of Ximena is frequently alluded to, in the ro- 
mances. 

Note 5. 

Banderas antlguas, tristes 

De victorias un tiempo amadas, 

Tremolando estan al viento 

Ylloran aunque no hablan, &c. 
Herder's translation of these romances CDer Cid, nacli Spaniscben 
Romanzen besungen) are remarkable for their spirit and scrupulous 
fidelity. 

Note 6. 

" And while they stood there, tbey saw the Cid Ruy Diez coming 
up with three hundred knights ; for he h?.d not been in the battle, 
and they knew his green pennon.^^ — Southfy^a Chronicle of the Cid. 

Note 7. 
Alvar Fanez Minaya, one of the Cid's most distinguished warriors. 



Note 8. 

The archcr-qvcen, 

A Moorish Amazon, who, with a band of female warriors, accom- 
lanied king Bucar from Africa. Her arrows were so unerring, that 
he oblumed the name of the St.ir of archers. 

Una Mora muy gallarda, 
Gran maesira en el tirar, 
Con saetas del Al Java, 
De los arcos de Tiirquia 
Estrella era nombrada. 
For la destreza que avia 
En el herir de la Xara. 

Note 9. 

See Southey's Chronicle of the Cid, p. 352. 



THE HEART OF BRUCE 



IN 

MELROSE ABBEY. 



Hea.rt! that didst press forward still,* 
Where the trumpet's note rang shrill, 
Where the knightly swords were crossing, 
And the plumes like sea-foam tossing. 
Leader of the charging spear. 
Fiery heart !— and liest thou here? 
May this narrow spot inurn 
Aught tliat so could beat and burn ? 

Heart! that lovedst the clarion's blast, 
Silent is thy place at last ; 
Silent,— save when early bird 
Sings where once the mass was heard ; 
Silent,— save when breeze's moan 
Comes through flowers or fretted stone ; 
And the wild-rose waves around thee. 
And the long dark grass hath bound thee,— 
—Sleep's! thou, as the swain might sleep. 
In his nameless valley deep? 

No I brave heart !— though cold and lone. 
Kingly power is yet thine own ! 
Feel I not thy spirit brood 
O'er the whispering solitude ? 
Lo ! at one high thought of thee. 
Fast they rise, the bold, the free. 
Sweeping past thy lowly bed. 
With a mute, yet stately tread. 
Shedding their pale armour's light 
Forth upon the breathless night, 
Bending every warlike plume 
In the prayer o'er saintly tomb. 

Is the noble Douglas nigh, 
Arm'd to follow thee, or die ? 
Now, true heart, as thou wert wont. 
Pass thou to the peril's front ! 
Where the banner-spear is gleaming. 
And the battle's red wine streaming, 
Till the Payniin quail before thee, 
Till the cross wave proudly o'er thee ; — 
—Dreams ! the falling of a leaf 
Wins me from their splendours brief; 
Dreams, yet bright ones! scorn them not. 
Thou that seek'st the holy spot ; 
Nor. amidst its lone domain. 
Call tlie faith in relics vain ! 



NATURE'S FAREWELL. 



> vanished, and returns not. 

Coleridge's WalUnste^u 



A YotTTH rode forth from his childhood's home. 
Through the crowded paths of the world to roam. 
And the green leaves whisper'd, as he pass'd, 
" Wherefore, thou dreamer, away so fast ? 



" Now pass thou forward, as thou wert wont, and Douglas will 
follow Ihee or die !" With these words Douglas threw from him the 
heart of Bruce, into mid-battle against the Moors of Spain. 



236 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



" Kncw'st thou with what thou art parting here, 
Long wouldst thou linger in doubt and fear; 
' Thy'heart's light laughter, thy sunny hours, 
Thou hast left in our shades with tlie spring's wild 
flowers. 

" Under the arch by our mingling made, 
Thou and thy brother have gaily play'd ; 
Ye may meet again where ye roved of yore, 
But as ye have met tliere— oh ! never more !" 

On rode the youth— and the boughs among, 
Thus the free birds o'er his pathway sung: 
" Wherefore so fast unto life away? 
Thou art leaving for ever thy joy in our lay ! 

" Thou mayst come to the summer woods again. 
And thy heart have no echo to greet their strain ; 
Afar from the foliage its love will dwell— 
A change must pass o'er thee— farewell, farewell !" 

On rode the youth :— and the founts and streams 
Thus mingled a voice with his joyous dreams : 
— " We have been thy playmates through many a 

day. 
Wherefore thus leave us ?— oh ! yet delay ! 

" Listen but once to the sound of our mirth! 
For thee 'tis a melody passing from earth. 
Never again wilt thou find in its flow. 
The peace it could once on thy heart bestow. 

" Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood's glee, 
With the breath of the world on thy spirit free ; 
Passion and sorrow its depths will have stirr'd, 
And the singing of waters be vainly heard. 

" Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no part— 
What should it do for a burning heart? 
Thou wilt bring to the banks of our freshest rill. 
Thirst which no fountain on earth may still. 

" Farevj'ell 1- when thou comest again to thine 

own. 
Thou wilt miss from our music its loveliest tone ; 
Mournfully true is the tale we tell- 
Yet on, fiery dreamer ! farewell, farewell !" 

And a something of gloom on his spirit weigh'd. 
As he caught the last sounds of his native shade; 
But he knew not, till many a bright spell broke, 
How deep were the oracles Nature spoke ! 



THE LYRE'S LAMENT. 



A large lyre hung in an opening ot the rock, and gave forth its 
melancholy music to the wind— but no human being was lo be seen. 

Salaihiel. 



A DEEP-TONED Lyre hung murmuring 

To the wild wind of the sea : 
"O melancholy wind," it sigh'd, 

" What would thy breath with me ? 

'•' Thou canst not wake the spirit 

That in me slumbering lies, 
Thou strikest not forth tli' electric fire 

Of buried melodies. 

"Wind of the dark sea-waters! 

Thou dost but sweep my strings 
Into wild gusts of monrnfulness. 

With tlie rushing of thy wings. 

" But the spell— the gift— the lightning— 

Within my frame conceal'd. 
Must I moulder on the rock away, 

With their triumphs unreveal'd ? 

" I have power, high power, for freedom 

To wake the burning soul ! 
I have sounds that through the ancient hills 

Like a torrent's voice might roll. 



" I have pealing notes of victory 
That might welcome kings from war ; 

I have rich deep tones to send the wail 
For a hero's death afar. 

" I have chords to lift the psean 

From the temple to the sky, 
Full as the forest-unisons 

When sweeping winds are high. 

" And Love — for Love's lone sorrow 

I have accents that might swell 
Through the summer-air with the rose's breath. 

Or the violet's faint farewell : 

" Soft — spiritual — mournful — 

Sighs in each note enshrined — 
But who shall call that sweetness forth? 

ITAoa canst not, ocean-wind! 

" I pass without my glory, 

Forgotten I decay — 
Where is the touch to give me life ? 

— Wild fitful wind, away I" 

So sigh'd the broken music 

That in gladness had no part — 
How like art thou, neglected Lyre, 

To many a human heart ! 



THE WOUNDED EAGLE. 



Eagle! this is not thy sphere : 
Warrior bird ! what seek'st thou here ? 
Wherefore by the fountain's brink 
Doth thy royal pinion sink? 
Wherefore on the violet's bed 
Lay'st thou thus thy drooping head ? 
Thou, that hold'st the blast in scorn. 
Thou that weat'st the wings of morn ! 

Eagle ! wilt thou not arise? 
Look upon thine own bright skies? 
Lift thy glance ! the fiery sun 
There his pride of place hath won ! 
And the mountain-lark is there. 
And sweet sound hath fill'd the air; 
Hast thou left that realm on high? 
— Oh! it can be but to die ! 

Eagle, Eagle ! thou hast bow'd 
From thine empire o'er the cloud ! 
Thou, that hadst ethereal birth. 
Thou hast stoop'd too near the earth. 
And the hunter's shaft hath found thee, 
And the toils of death have bound thee ! 
— Wherefore didst thou leave thy place, 
Creature of a liingly race? 

Wert thou weary of thy throne? 
Was thy sky's dominion lone ? 
Chill and lone it well might be. 
Yet that mighty wing was free ! 

Now the chain is o'er it cast. 
From thy heart the blood flows fast, 
— Woe for gifted souls and high ! 
Is not such their destiny ? 



THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH-SONG. 

Willst du nach den Nachtigallen fragen. 

Die mit seelenvollen Melodic 
Dich entzuckten in des Lenzes Tagen ? 

— Nur so lang sie iiebten, waren sie. 



Mournfully, sing mournfully. 
And die away, my heart ! 

The rose, the glorious rose is gone, 
And 1, too, will depart. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



237 



The skies have lost their splendour, 
The waters changed their lone, 

And wherefore, in the faded world, 
Should music linger on ? 

Where is the golden sunshine. 
And where tlie flower-cup's glow? 

And where the joy of the dancing leaves, 
And the fountain's laughing flow? 

A voice, in every whisper 
Of the wave, the bough, the air. 

Comes asking for the beautiful. 
And moaning, " Where, oh ! where ?" 

Tell of the brightness parted. 

Thou bee, thou lamb at play! 
Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth! 

— Are ye, too, pass'd avvayl 

Mournfully, sing mournfully ! 

The royal rose is gone. 
Melt from the woods, my spirit, melt 

In one deep farewell tone I 

Not so ! — swell forth triumphantly. 

The full, rich, fervent strain I 
Hence with young love and life I go. 

In the summer's joyous train. 

With sunshine, with sweet odour, 

With every pi-ecious thing. 
Upon the last warm southern breeze 

My soul its flight shall wing. 

Alone I shall not linger. 
When the days of hope are past. 

To watch the fall of leaf by leaf, 
To wait the rushing blast. 

Triumphantly, triumphantly ! 

Sing to the woods, I go ! 
For me, perchance, in other lands, 

The glorious rose may blow. 

The sky's transparent azure, 
And the greensward's violet breath. 

And the dance of light leaves in the wind, 
May there know naught of death. 

No more, no more sing mournfully! 

Swell high, then break, my heart : 
With love, the spirit of the woods, 

With summer I depart ! 



THE DIVER. 



They leam in suffering what they teach in song. 



Thou hast been where the rocks of coral grow. 
Thou hast fought with eddying waves; — 

Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low, 
Thou searcher of ocean's caves! 

Thou hast look'd on the gleaming wealth of old, 
And wrecks where the brave have striven ; 

The deep is a strong and a fearful hold, 
But thou its bar hast riven ! 

A wild and weary life is thine, 

A wasting task and lone; 
Though treasure-grots for thee may shine, 

To all besides unknown ! 

A weary life ! but a swift decay 

Soon, soon shall set thte free ; 
Thou'rt passing fast from thy toils away, 

Thou wrestler with the sea ! 

In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek, 

Well are the death-signs read — 
Go ! for the pearl in its cavern seek. 

Ere hope and power be fled ! 



4nd bright in beauty's coronal 

That glistening gem shall be ; 
A star to all in the festive hall — 

But who will think on thee? 

None !— as it gleams from the queen-like head, 

Not one 'midst throngs will say 
" A life hath been like a rain-drop shed, 

For that pale quivering ray." 

Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought! 

— And are not those like thee. 
Who win for earth the gems of thought ? 

O wrestler with the sea ! 

Down to the gulfs of the soul they go, 

Where the passion-fountains burn. 
Gathering the jewels far below 

From many a buried urn : 

Wringing from lava-veins the fire. 

That o'er bright words is pour'd ; 
Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre 

A spirit in each chord. 

But, oh! the price of bitter tears. 

Paid for the lonely power 
That throws at last, o'er desert years, 

A darkly-glorious dower ! 

Like flower-seeds, by the wild wind spread, 

So radiant thoughts are strew 'd ; 
— The soul whence those high gifts arc shed, 

May faint in solitude I 

And who will think, when the strain is sung, 

Till a thousand hearts are stirr'd, 
What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung, 

Have gush'd with every word ? 

None, none ! — his treasures live like thine, 

He strives and dies like thee ; 
— Thou, that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine, 

O wrestler with the sea ! 



TRIUMPHANT MUSIC. 



Tacete, tacete, suoni trionfanti ! 
Risvegliate in vano '1 cor che non puo liberarsi. 



Wherefore and whither bear'st thou up my spirit. 
On eagle wings, through every plume that thrill ? 

It hath no crown of victory to inherit — 
Be still, triumphant harmony ! be still ! 

Thine are no sounds for earth, thus proudly swell- 
ing 

Into rich floods of joy :— it is but pain 
To mount so high, yet find on high no dwelling, 

To sink so fast, so heavily again ! 

No sounds for earth?— Yes, to young chieftain 
dying 
On his own battle-field, at set of sun. 
With his freed country's banner o'er him flying. 
Well mightst thou speak of fame's high guerdon 
won. 

No sounds for earth?— Yes, for the martyr leading 

Unto victorious death serenely on. 
For patriot by his rescued altars bleeding. 

Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone. 

But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating 

Against life's narrow hound, in conflict vain ! 
For power, for joy, high hope, and rapturous greet- 
ing. 
Thou wakest lone thirst — be hush'd, exulting 
strain ! 

Be hush'd, or breathe of grief! — of exile yearnings 
Under the wiUows of the stranger-shore ; 

Breathe of the soul's untold and restless burnings. 
For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no more. 



238 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Breathe of deep love— a lonely vigil keeping 
Through the night-hours, o'er wasted wealth to 
pine ; 
Rich thoughts and sad, like faded rose-leaves 
heaping, 
In the shut heart, at once a tomb and shrine. 



Or pass as if thy spirit-notes came sighing 
From worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky; 

Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, th' undy- 
ing — 
Of joy no more— bewildering harmony ! 



THE ENGLISH MARTYRS. 



A SCENE OF THE DAYS OF aUEEN MARY. 



Thy face 
Is all at once spread over with a calm 
More beautiful than sleep, or mirlh, or joy 
lam no more disconsolate. Wilson. 

Scene in a Prison. 
Edith alone. 

Edith. Morn once again ! Morn in the lone dim 
cell. 
The cavern of the prisoner's fever dream. 
And morn on all the green rejoicing hills. 
And the bright waters round the prisoner's home. 
Far, far away ! Now wakes the early bird 
That in the lime's transparent foliage sings. 
Close to my cottage lattice— he awakes. 
To stir the youngleaves with his gushing soul, 
And to call forth rich answers of delight 
From voices buried in a thousand trees. 
Through the dim starry hours. Now doth the lake 
Darken and flash in rapid interchange 
Unto the matin breeze; and the blue mist 
Rolls, like a furling banner, from the brows 
Of the forth-gleaming hills and woods that rise 
As if new-born. Bright world ! and I am here ! 
And thou, O thou ! th' awakening thought of whom 
Was more than day-spring, dearer than the sun, 
Herbert ! the very glance of whose clear eye 
Made my soul melt away to one pure fount 
Of living, bounding gladness ! — where art thou7 
My friend ! my only and my blessed love ! 
Herbert, my soul's companion ! 

[Gomez, a Spanish priest, enters. 

Gomez. Daughter, hail ! 

I bring thee tidings. 

Edith. Heaven will aid my soul 

Calmly to meet whate'er thy lips announce. 

Gomez. Nay, lift a song of thanksgiving to 
Heaven, 
And bow thy knee down for deliverance won ! 
Hast thou not pray'd for life ? and wouldst thou not 
Once more be free ? 

Edith. Have I not pray'd for life ! 

I, that am so beloved! that love again 
With such a heart of tendrils ? Heaven ! thou 

know'st 
The gushings of my prayer ! And would I not 
Once more be free ? I, that have been a child 
Of breezy hills, a playmate of the fawn 
In ancient woodlands, from mine infancy ! 
A watcher of the clouds and of the stars, 
Beneath the adoring silence of the night ; 
And a glad wanderer with the happy streams. 
Whose laughter fills the mountains ! Oh ! to hear 
Their blessed sounds again! 

Gomez. Rejoice ' rejoice ! 

Our dueen hath pity, maiden, on thy youth; 
She wills not thou shouldst perish. — I am come 
To loose thy bonds. 



Edith. And shall I see his face, 

And shall I listen to his voice again, 
And lay my head upon his faithful breast. 
Weeping there in my gladness ? Will this be ? — 
Blessings upon thee, father ! my quick heart 
Hath deem'd thee stern — say, wilt thou not forgive 
The wayward child, too long in sunshine rear'd, 
Too long unused to chastening? Wilt thou not? — 
But Herbert, Herbert ! Oh, my soul hath rush'd 
On a swift gust of sudden joy away. 
Forgetting all beside ? Speak, father, speak . 
Herbert— is he too free ? 

Gomez. His freedom lies 

In his own choice — a boon like thine. 

Edith. Thy words 

Fall changed and Cftld upon my boding heart. 
Leave not this dim Suspense o'ershadowing me. 
Let all be told. 

Gomez. The monarchs of the earth 

Shower not their mighty gifts without a claim 
Unto sometoken of true vassalage, 
Some mark of homage. 

Edith. Oh! unlike to Him, 

Who freely pours the joy of sunshine forth. 
And the bright quickening rain, on those who 

serve 
And those who heed him not ! 

Gomez, {laying a paper before her.) Is it so much 
That thine own hand should set the crowning seal 
To thy deliverance ? Look, thy task is here ! 
Sign but these words for liberty and life. 

Edith, {examining and then throwing it from her.) 
Sign but these words ! and wherefore saidst thou 

not, 
" Be but a traitor to God's light within ?" — 
Cruel, oh, cruel ! thy dark sport hath been 
With a young bosom's hope ! Farewell, glad life! 
Bright opening path to love and home, farewell ! 
And thou— now leave me with my God alone ! 

Gomez. Dost thou reject Heaven's mercy ? 

Edith. Heaven's ! doth Heaven 

Woo the free spirit for dishonour'd breath 
To sell its birthright ? doth Heaven set a price 
On the clear jewel of unsullied faith, 
And the bright calm of conscience ? Priest, away ! 
God hath been with me 'midst the holiness 
Of England's mountains — not in sport alone 
I trod their heath-flowers — but high thoughts 

rose up 
From the broad shadow of the enduring rocks, 
And wander'd with me into solemn glens. 
Where my soul felt the beauty of His word. 
I have heard voices of immortal truth. 
Blent with the everlasting torrent-sounds 
That make the deep hills tremble.— Shall I quail? 
Shall England's daughter sink? — No! He who 

there 
Spoke to my heart in silence and in storm, 
Will not forsake his child ! 

Gomez, {turning from her.) Then perish ! lost 
In thine own blindness! 

Edith, {suddenly throwing herself at his feet.") 
Father ! hear me yet ! 
Oh ! if the kindly touch of human love 
Hath ever warm'd thy breast 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



239 



Gomez. Away— away ! 

I know not love. 

Edith. Yet lieav ! if thou hast known 
The tender sweetness of a mother's voice — 
If tlie true vigil of affection's eye 
Hath watch'dlthy childhood— if fond tears have e'er 
Been shower'd upon thy head — if parting words 
E'er pierced thy spirit witli their tenderness — 
Let me but look upon his face once more. 
Let me but say — Farewell, my soul's beloved! 
And I will bless thee still ! 

Gomez, {aside.) Her soul may yield, 

Beholding him in fetters ; woman's faith 
Will bend to woman's love — 

Thy prayer is heard ; 
Follow, and I will guide thee to his cell. 

Edith. Oh ! stormy hour of agony and joy ! 
But I shall see liim— I shall liear his voice ! 

[ They go out. 

SCENE II. 

Another Part of the Prison. 

Herbert — Edith. 

Edith. Herbert, my Herbert ! is it thus we meet? 
Herbert. The voice of my own Edith ! Can such 

joy 
Light up this place of death ? And do I feel 
Thy breath of love once more upon my cheek, 
And the soft floating of thy gleamy hair. 
My blessed Edith! Oh! so pale! so changed! 
My flower, my blighted flower ! thou that wert 

made 
For the kind fostering of sweet summer airs, 
How hath the storm been with thee! — Lay thy 

head 
On this true breast again, my gentle one ! 
And tell me all. 

Edith. Yes, take me to thy heart, 

For I am weary, weary ! Oh ! that heart ! 
The kind, the brave, the tender ! — how my soul 
Hath sicken'd in vain yearnings for the balm 
Of rest on that warm heart !— full, deep repose ! 
One draught of dewy stillness after storm! 
And God hath pitied me, and T am here — 
Yet once before I die ! 

Herbert. They cannot slay 

One, young and meek, and beautiful as thou! 
My broken lily! Surely the long days 
of the dark cell have been enough for thee! 
Oh ! thou shall live, and raise thy gracious head 
Yet in calm sunshine. 

Edith. Herbert ! I have cast 

The snare of proffer'd mercy from my soul. 
This very hour. God to the weak hath given 
Victory o'er life and death!— The tempter's price 
Hath been rejected — Herbert, I must die. 

Herbert. O Edith ! Edith ! I, that led thee first 
From the old path wherein thy fathers trod— 
I, that received it as an angel's task, 
To pour the fresh light on thine ardent soul. 
Which drank it as a sun-flower— /have been 
Thy guide to death ! 

Edith. To Heaven ! ray guide to Heaven, 

My noble and ray blessed ! Oh ! look up, 
Be strong, rejoice, my Herbert! But for thee 
How could my spirit have sprung up to God, 
Through the dark cloud which o'er its vision hung, 
The night of fear and error? thy dear hand 
First raised that veil, and shovv'd the glorious 

world 
My heritage beyond— Friend ! love and friend ! 
It was as if thou gavest me mine own soul 
In those bright days ! Yes ! a new earth and 

heaven. 
And a new sense for all their splendours born, 
These were thy gifts! and shall I not rejoice 
To die, upholding their immortal worth, 
Even for thy sake ? Yes, fill'd with nobler life 
By thy pure love, made holy to the truth, 
Lay me upon the altar of thy God, 
The first fruits of thy ministry below ; 
77i)/ work, thine own ! 

Herbert. My love, my sainted love ! 

Oh I I can almost yield thee unto heaven ; 



Earth would but sully thee ! Thou must depart, 

With the rich crown of thy celestial gifts 

Untainted by a breath ! And yet, alas! 

Edith ! what dreams of holy happiness. 

Even for this world, were ours ! the low, sweet 

home— 
The pastoral dwelling, with its ivied porch. 
And lattice gleaming through the leaves— and thou, 
My life's companion ! — Thou, beside my hearth. 
Sitting with thy meek eyes, or greeting me 
Back from brief absence with thy bounding step, 
In the green meadow path, or by my side 
Kneeling — thy calm uplifted face to mine. 
In the sweet hush of prayer ! and now — oh ! now — 
How have we loved— how fervently, how long! 
And this to be the close ! 

Edith. Oh ! bear me up 

Against the unutterable tenderness 
Of earthly love, my God ! in the sick hour 
Of dying human hope, forsake me not ! 
Herbert, my Herbert! even from that sweet home 
Where it had been too much of Paradise 
To dwell with thee — even thence the oppressor's 

hand 
Might soon have torn us; or the touch of death 
Might one day there have left a widow'd heart. 
Pining alone. We will go hence, beloved! 
To the bright country, where the wicked cease 
From troubling, where the spoiler hath no sway ; 
Where no harsh voice of worldliness disturbs 
The Sabbath-peace of love. We will go hence, 
Together with our wedded souls, to Heaven : 
No solitary lingering, no cold void. 
No dying of the heart ! Our lives have been 
Lovely through faithful love, and in our deaths 
We will not be divided. 

Herbert. Oh ! the peace 

Of God is lying far within thine eyes, 
Far underneath the mist of human tears. 
Lighting those blue still depths, and sinking thence 
On my worn heart. Now am I girt with strength, 
Now i can bless thee, my true bride for Heaven ! 

Edith. And let me bless thee, Herbert ! in this 
hour 
Let my sou! bless thee with prevailing might ! 
Oh! thou hast loved me nobly ! thou didst take 
An orphan to thy heart, a thing unprized 
And desolate; and thou didst guard her there, 
That lone and lowly creature, as a pearl 
Of richest price ; and thou didst fill her soul 
With the high gifts of an immortal wealth. — 
I bless, I bless thee ! Never did thine eye 
Look on me but in glistening tenderness, 
My gentle Herbert ! Never did thy voice 
But in affection's deepest music speak 
To thy poor Edith ! Never was thy heart 
Aught but the kindliest sheltering home to mine, 
My faithful, generous Herbert ! Woman's peace 
Ne'er on a breast so tender and so true 
Reposed before. — Alas! thy showering tears 
Fall fast upon my cheek— forgive, forgive ! 
I should not melt thy noble strength away 
In such an hour. 

Herbert. Sweet Edith, no ! my heart 

Will fail no more ; God bears me up through thee, 
And, by thy words, and by the heavenly light 
Shining around thee, through thy very tears, 
Will yet sustain me ! Let us call on him ! 
Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft. 
Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him, 
Th' all-pitying One, to aid. 

[They kneel. 

O, look on us. 
Father above ! in tender mercy look 
On us, thy children ! through th' o'ersliadowing 

cloud 
Of sorrow and mortality, send aid, 
Save or we perish ! we would pour our lives 
Forth as a joj'ous offering to thy truth. 
But wo are weak — we, the bruised roeds of earth, 
Are sway'd by every gust. Forgive, O God ! 
The blindness of our passionate desires, 
The fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts. 
Which cleave to dust ! Forgive the strife ; accept 
The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears. 



240 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



From mortal pangs wrung forth ! And if our souls, 

In all the fervent dreams, the fond excess, 

Of their long-clasping love, have wander'd not, 

Holiest ! from thee ; oh ! take them to thyself, 

After the fiery trial, take them home 

To dwell, in that imperishable bond 

Before thee link'd, for ever. Hear, through Him 

Wlio meekly drank the cup of agony. 

Who pass'd through death to victory, heat and 

save! 
Pity us. Father! we are girt with snares; 
Father in Heaven 1 we have no help but thee. 

iT/icy rise. 
Is thy soul strengthen'd, my beloved one ? 
O Edith ! couldst thou lift up thy svifeet voice, 
And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn 
We loved in happier days— the strain which tells 
Of the dread conflict in the olive shade ? 

[She sings. 

He knelt, the Saviour knelt and pray'd, 
When but his Father's eye 

Look'd through the lonely garden's shade 
On that dread agony; 

The Lord of All above, beneath, 

Was bow'd with sorrow unto death. 

The sun set in a fearful hour. 

The stars might well grow dim, 
When this mortality had power 

So to o'ershadovv Him ! 
That He who gave man's breath, might know 
The very depths of human woe. 

He proved them all ! the doubt, the strife, 

The faint perplexing dread, 
The mists that hang o'er parting life, 

All gather'd round his head ; 
And the Deliverer knelt to pray- 
Yet pass'd it not, that cup, away! 

It pass'd not— though the stormy wave 

Had sunk beneath his tread ; 
It pass'd not— though to him the grave 

Had yielded up its dead. 
But there was sent him from on high 
A gift of strength for man to die. 

And was the sinless thus beset 
With anguish and dismay ? 
How may we meet our conflict yet, 

In the dark narrow wav ? 
Thro' Him— Thro' Him, that path who trod— 
Save, or we perish, Son of God ! 
Hark! hark! the parting signal. 

[Prison attendants enter. 
Fare-thee-well ! 
O thou unutterably loved, farewell ! 
Let our hearts bow to God ! 

Herbert. One last embrace — 

On earth the last!— We have eternity 
Forlove'scommunionyet!— Farewell— farewell!— 
[She is led out. 
'Tis o'er— the bitterness of death is past ! 



FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM OF 

SICKNESS. 



Once, when I look'd along (he laughing earth, 

Up the blue heavens, and through the middle air. 

Joyfully ringing with the sky-lark's song, 

I wept ! and thought how sad for one so young, 

To bid farewell to so much happiness. 

But Christ hath call'd me from this lower world. 

Delightful though it be. Wilson. 



Apartment in an English Countrrj -House. — Lilian 
reclining, as sleeping on a couch. Her Mother 
watching beside her. Her Sister enters withfiowers. 

Mother. Hush, lightly tread ! still tranquilly she 
sleeps, 
As, when a babe, I rock'd her on my heart. 
I've watch'd, suspending e'en my breath, in fear 



To break the heavenly spell. Move silently ! 
And oh 1 those flowers ! dear Jessy, bear them 

hence — 
Dost thou forget the passion of quick tears 
That shook her trembling frame, when last we 

brought 
The roses to her couch? Dost thou not know 
What sudden longings for the woods and hills. 
Where once her free steps moved so buoyantly. 
These leaves and odours with strange influence 

wake 
In her fast-kindled soul ? 

Jessy. Oh! she would pine, 

Were the wild scents and glowing hues withheld, 
Mother! far more than now her spirit yearns 
For the blue sky, the singing birds and brooks, 
And swell of breathing turf, whose lightsome 

spring 
Their blooms recall. 

Lilian, {raising herself.) Is that my Jessy's voice? 
It woke me not, sweet mother ! I had lain 
Silently, visited by waking dreams. 
Yet conscious of thy brooding watchfulness. 
Long ere I heard the sound. Hath she brought 

flowers ? 
Nay, fear not now thy fond child's waywardness. 
My thoughtful mother ! — in her chasten'd soul 
The passion-coloux'd images of life. 
Which, with their sudden startling flush, awoke 
So oft those burning tears, have died away; 
And night is there — still, solemn, holy night. 
With aU her stars, and with the gentle tune 
Of many fountains, low and musical, 
By day unheard. 

Mother. And wherefore night, my child ? 

Thou art a creature all of life and dawn. 
And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise, 
And walk forth with the day-spring. 

Lilian. Hope it not ! 

Dream it no more, my mother! there are things 
Known but to God, and to the parting soul. 
Which feels his thrilling summons. 

But my words 
Too much o'ershadovv those kind loving eyes. 
Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy ! Ah! thy step, 
Well do I see, hath not alone explored 
The garden bowers, but freely visited 
Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadowsweet 
Is from the cool green shadowy river nook. 
Where the stream chimes around th' old mossy 

stones 
With sounds like childhood's laughter. Is that spot 
Lovely as when our glad eyes hail'd it first? 
Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep 
The clear brown wave with every passing wind ? 
And thro' the shallower waters, where they lie 
Dimpling in light, do the vein'd pebbles gleam 
Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies. 
From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still 
Among the poplar-boughs ? 

Jessy. All, all is there 

Which glad midsummer's wealthiest hours can 

bring : 
All, save the soul of all, thy lightening smile ! 
Therefore I stood in sadness, 'midst the leaves, 
And caught an under-music of lament 
In the stream's voice ; but Nature waits thee still, 
And for thy coming piles a fairy throne 
Of richest moss. 

Lilian. Alas ! it may not be ! 

My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly, 
To all these blessed haunts of song and thought; 
Yet not the less I love to look on these. 
Their dear memorials : strew them o'er my couch. 
Till it grow like a forest-bank in spring. 
All flush'd with violets and anemones. 
Ah! the pale brier rose ! touch'd so tenderly, 
As a pure ocean-shell, with faintest red. 
Melting away to pearliness ! — I know 
How its long light festoons o'erarching hung 
From the gray rock, that rises altar-like. 
With its high waving crown of mountain ash, ' 
'Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough 
Of honey'd woodbine, tells me of the oak 
Whose deep midsummer gloom sleeps heavily. 
Shedding a verdurous twilight o'er the face 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



241 



or the glade's pool. Methinks I see it now ; 
I look up through the stirring of its leaves 
Unto the intense blue crystal firmament. 
The ringdove's wing is flitting o'er my head, 
Casting at times a silvery shadow dowji 
'Midst the large water-lilies. Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all this fair free world 
Under God's open sky ! 

Mother. Thou art o'erwrought 

Once more, my child ! The dewy trembling light 
Presaging tears, again is in thine eye. 
O, hush, dear Lilian ! turn thee to repose. 

Lilian. Mother, I cannot. In my soul the 
thoughts 
Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire ; 
Importunately to my lips they throng. 
And with their earthly kindred seek to blend 
Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone^ 
(For I must go) — then the remember'd words 
"Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth, 
Will to thy fond heart be as amulets 
Held there with life and love. And weep not thus ! 
Mother ! dear sister ! kindest, gentlest ones ! 
Be comforted that now /weep no more 
For the glad earth and all the golden light 
Whence I depart. 

No ! God hath purified my spirit's eye. 
And in the folds of this consummate rose 
I read bright prophecies. I see not there. 
Dimly and mournfully, the word "farewclT' 
On the rich petals traced: — No — in soft veins 
And characters of beauty, I can read^ 
" Lookup, look heavenward !" 

Blessed God of Love ! 
I thank thee for these gifts, the precious links 
Whereby my spirit unto thee is drawn ! 
I thank thee that the loveliness of earth 
Higher than earth can raise me ! Are not these 
But germs of things unperishing, that bloom 
Beside th' immortal streams? Shall I not find 
The lily of the field, the Saviour's flower. 
In the serene and never-moaning air. 
And the clear starry light of angel eyes, 
A thousand-fold more glorious? Richer far 
Will not the violet's dusky purple glow, 
When it hath ne'er been press'd to broken hearts, 
A record of lost love ? 

Mother. My Lilian I thou 

Surely in thy bright life hast little known 
Of lost things or of changed ! 

Lilian. Oh ! little yet. 

For than hast been my shield ! But had it been 
My lot on this world's billows to be thrown 
Without thy love— O mother! there are hearts 
So perilously fashion'd, that for them 
God's touch alone hath gentleness enough 
To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings ! — 
We will not speak of this ! 

By what strange spell 
Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers, 
I dream of music? Something in their hues 
All melting into colour'd hannonies. 
Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords. 
Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die 
In tenderest falls away. — O, bring thy harp. 
Sister! a gentle heaviness at last 
Hath touch'd mine eyelids : sing to me, and sleep 
Will come asain. 

Jessy. What wouldst thou hear? Th' Italian 
Peasant's Lay, 
Which makes the desolate Campagna ring 
With " Roma, Roma ?" or the Madrigal 
Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily? 
Or the old ditty left by Troubadours 
To girls of Languedoc ? 

Lilian. Oh, no ! not these. 

Jessy. What then? the Moorish melody still 
known 
Within the Alhambra city? or those notes 
Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile's heart 
Even unto death? 

Lilian. No, sister, nor yet these. — 

Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret. 
Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes 
In the caressing sweetness of their tones. 
For one who dies : — Thev would but woo me back 

31 



To glowing life with those Arcadian sounds— 

And vainly, vainly— No ! a loftier strain, 

A deeper music !— Something that may bear 

The spirit up on slow yet mighty wings, 

Uusway'd by gusts of earth: something, all fill'd 

With solemn adoration, tearful prayer. — 

Sing me that antique strain which once I deem'd 

Almost too sternly simple, too austere 

In its grave majesty ! I love it now— 

JVow it seems fraught with holiest power, to hush 

All billows of the soul, e'en like His voice 

That said of old—" Be still !" Sing me that strain — 

" The Saviour's dying hour." 

[Jessy sings to the Harp. 

O Son of Man ! 
In thy last mortal hour 
Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully ! 
All that on us is laid. 

All the deep gloom. 
The desolation and th' abandonment. 

The dark amaze of death ; 

All upon thee too fell, 

Redeemer ! Son of Man ! 

But the keen pang 
Wherewith the silver cord 
Of earth's aff'ection from the soul is wrung; 
Th' uptearing of those tendrils which have grown 

Into the quick strong heart ; 
This, this, the passion and the agony 
Of battling love and death, 
Surely was not for thee, 
Holy One ! Son of God ! 

Yes, my Redeemer ! 
E'en this cup was thine! 

Fond wailing voices call'd thy spirit back ; 
E'en 'midst the mighty thoughts 
Of that last crowning hour ; 

E'en on thine awful way to victory. 

Wildly they call'd thee back! 
And weeping eyes of love 
Unto thy heart's deep core. 

Pierced thro' the folds of death's mysterious veil— 
Suflierer ! thou Son of Man ! 

Mother-tears were mingled 
With thy costly biood -drops, 

In the shadow of th' atoning cross ; 

And the friend, the faithful, 
He that on thy bosom. 

Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain — 
He, a pale sad watcher- 
Met with looks of angnish, 

All the anguish in thy last meek glance- 
Dying Son of Man"! 

Oh! therefore unto thee. 
Thou that hast known all woes 
Bound in the girdle of mortality ! 

Thou that wilt lift the reed 
Which storms have bruised. 
To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry. 
And, in that tempest-hour when love and life 
Mysteriously must part, 

When tearful eyes 
Are passionately bent 
To drink earth's last fond meaning from our gaze. 
Then, then forsake us not ! 
Shed on our spirits then 
The faith and deep submissiveness of thine ! 
Thou that didst love. 
Thou that didst weep and die — 
Thou that didst rise, a victor glorified ! 

Conqueror ! thou Son of God ! 



CATHEDRAL HYMN. 



*' They dreamt not of a perishable home 

Who thus could build. Be mine, ia hours of fear 

Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here." 



A DIM and mifjhty minster of old time ! 
A temple shadowy with remembrances 



242 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Of the majestic past !— the very light 
Streams with a colouring of heroic days 
In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle 
A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back 
To other years ;— and the rich fretted roof. 
And the wrought coronals of summer leaves, 
Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose-^ 
The tenderest image of mortality- 
Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts 
Cluster like stems in corn-sheaves — all these things 
Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly. 
On their heart's worship pour'd a wealth of love! 
Honour be with the dead !— The people kneel 
Under the helms of antique chivalry, 
And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown. 
And 'midst the forms, in pale proud slumber carved. 
Of warriors on their tombs. — The people kneel 
Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewell'd 

crowns 
On the flush'd brows of conquerors have been set; 
Where the high anthems of old victories 
Have made the dust give echoes. — Hence, vain 

thoughts ! 
Memories of power and pride, which, long ago, 
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk 
In twilight depths away.— Return, my soul! 
The cross recalls thee— Lo ! the blessed cross ! 
High o'er the banners and the crests of earth, 
Fi.x'd in its meek and still supremacy! 
And lo I the throng of beating human hearts, 
With all their secret scrolls of buried grief, 
AH their full treasures of immortal hope, 
Gather'd before their God!— Hark ! how the flood 
Of the rich organ harmony bears up 
Their voice on its high waves !— a mighty burst ! 
A forest-sounding music !— every tone 
Which the blasts call forth with their harping 

wings 
From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent : 
And the old minster— forest-like itself— 
With its long avenues of pillar'd shade, 
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain 
O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not 
One tomb unthrill'd by the strong sympathy 
Answering the electric notes. — Join, join, my soul ! 
In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness. 
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn. 

Rise like an altar-fire ! 

In solemn joy aspire. 
Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain ! 

On thy strong rushing wind 

Bear up from human kind 
Thanks and implorings— be they not in vain ! 

Father, which art on high ! 

Weak is the melody 
Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear, 

Unless the heart be there, 

Winging the words of prayer, 
With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear. 

Let, then, thy spirit brood 

Over the multitude — 
Be thou amidst them through that heavenly Guest ! 

So shall their cry have power 

To win from thee a shower 
Of healing gifts for every wounded breast. 

What griefs that make no sign. 

That ask no aid but thine, 
Father of Mercies ! here before thee swell. 

As to the open sky. 

All their dark waters lie 
To thee reveal'd, in each close bosom cell. 

The sorrow for the dead. 

Mantling its lonely head 
From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free ; 

And the fond, aching love. 

Thy minister, to move 
All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee. 

And doth not thy dread eye 
Behold the agony 



In that most hidden chamber of the heart, 

Where darkly sits remorse, 

Beside the secret source 
Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart ? 

Yes ! here before thy throne 

Many — yet each alone — 
To thee that terrible unveiling make ; 

And still small whispers clear 

Are startling many an ear. 
As if a trumpet bade the dead awake. 

How dreadful is this place ! 

The glory of thy face 
Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight : 

Where shall the guilty flee? 

Over what far-off sea ? 
What hills, what woods, may shroud him from 
that light ? 

Not to the cedar shade 

Let his vain flight be made, 
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea ; 

What, but the cross, can yield 

The hope — the stay— the shield ? 
Thence may the Atoner lead him up to Thee ! 

Be thou, be thou his aid! 

Oh ! let thy love pervade 
The haunted caves of self-accusing thought! 

There let the living stone 

Be cleft — the seed be sown — 
The song of fountains from the silence brought ! 

So shall thy breath once more 

Within the soul restore 
Thine own first image— Holiest and most High ! 

As a clear lake is fill'd 

With hues of Heaven, instill'd 
Down to the depths of its calm purity. 

And if, amidst the throng 

Link'd by the ascending song. 
There are, whose thoughts in trembling rapture 
soar ; 

Thanks, Father ! that the power 

Of joy, man's early dower, 
Thus, e'en 'midst tears, can fervently adore ! 

Thanks for each gift divine ! 

Eternal praise be thine. 
Blessing and love, O Thou thatheatest prayer! 

Let the hymn pierce the sky, 

And let the tombs reply ! 
For seed, that waits thy harvest-time, is there. 



WOOD WALK AND HYMN. 



Move along these shades 
In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand 
Touch— for there is a spirit in the woods. 

fVordswortk, 



FATHER — CHILD. 

Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery 
leaves 
Trembling, for ever trembling! though the lime 
And chestnut boughs, andthose long archingsprays 
Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood 
Were all one picture! 

Father. Hast thou heard, my boy, 

The peasant's legend of that quivering tree? 

Child. No, father ; doth he say the fairies dance 
Amidst the branches? 

Father. Oh ! a cause more deep, 

More solemn far, the rustic doth assign 
To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves ! 
The cross, ho deems, the blessed cross, whereon 
The meek Redeemer bow'd his head to death. 
Was framed of aspen wood ; and since that hour. 
Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



243 



A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe, 
Making them trfimiiloiis, when not a breeze 
Disturbs the airy thistle down, or shakes 
The light lines of the shining gossaraerj 

Child, {after apause.) Dost thou believe it, father? 

Father. Nay, my child, 

JFc walk in clearer light. But yet, even now, 
With something of a lingering love, I read 
The characters, by that mysterious hour, 
Stamp'd on the reverential soul of man 
In visionary days; and thence thrown back 
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign 
Of the great sacrifice which won us Heaven, 
The woodman and the mountaineer can trace 
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so ! 
Theij do not wisely that, with hurried hand, 
Would pluck these salutary fancies forth 
From their strong soil within the peasant's breast, 
And scatter them— far, far too fast !— away 
As worthless weeds :— Oh ! little do we know 
When they have soothed, when saved ! 

But come, dear boy ! 
My words grow tinged with thought too deep for 

thee. 
Come— let us search for violets. 

Child. Know you not 

More of the legends which the woodmen tell 
Amidst the trees and flowers ? 

Father. AVilt thou know more ? 

Bring then the folding leaf, with dark brown stains, 
There — by the mossy roots of yon old beech, 
'Midst the rich tuft of cowslips — see'st thou not? 
There is a spray of woodbine from the tree 
Just bending o'er it, with a wild bee's weight. 

Child The Arum leaf? 

Father. Yes, these deep inwrought marks. 

The villager will tell thee (and with voice 
Lower'd in his true heart's reverent earnestness) 
Are the flower's portion from th' atoning blood 
On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew ; 
And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf, 
Catching from that dread shower of agony 
A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus 
Unto the groves and hills, their sealing stains, 
A heritage, for storm or vernal wind 
Never to'waft away ! 

And hast thou seen 
The passion-flower? — It grows not in the woods. 
But 'midst the bright things brought from other 
climes. 

Child. What, the pale star-shaped flower, vi'ith 
purple streaks 
And light green tendrils ? 

Father. Thou hast mark'd it well. 

Yes, a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower. 
As from a land of spirits ! — To mine eye 
Those faint wan petals— colourless — and yet 
Not white, but shadowy — with the mystic lines 
(As letters of some wizard language gone) 
Into their vapour-like transparence wrought. 
Bear something of a strange solemnity. 
Awfully lovely ! — and the Christian's thought. 
Loves, in their cloudy pencilling, to find 
Dread symbols of his Lord's last mournful pangs. 
Set by God's hand— The coronal of thorns — 
The cross — the won nds — with other mea n i ngs deep. 
Which I will teach thee when we meet again 
That flower, the chosen for the martyr's wreath, 
The Saviour's holy flovfer. 

But let US pause : 
Now have we reach'd the very inmost heart 
Of the old wood. — How the green shadows close 
Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round, 
A luxury of gloom ! — Scarce doth one ray. 
Even wiien a soft wind parts the foliage, steal 
O'er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades ; 
Or if it doth, 'tis with a mellow'd hue 
Of glow-worm colour'd light. 

Here, in the days 
Of pagan visions, would have been a place 
For worship of the v^-ood nymphs ! Through those 

oaks 
A small, fair gleaming temple might have thrown 
The quiverine image of its Dorian shafts 
On the stream's bosom ; or a sculptured form. 
Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom 



Have bow'd its head o'er that dark crystal down, 
Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops 
Under bright rain :— but we, my child, are here 
AVith God, our God, a Spirit ; who requires 
Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth; 
And this high knowledge— deep, rich, vast enough 
To fill and hallow all the solitude, 
Makes consecrated earth where'er we move, 
Without the aid of shrines. 

What! dost thou feel 
The solemn whispering influence of the scene 
Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw 
More closely to my side, and clasp my hand 
Faster in thine ? Nay, fear not, gentle child ! 
'Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades 
The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here. 
Where brooding violets mantle this green slope 
With dark e.xuberance— and beneath these plumes 
Of wavy fern, look where the ciip-moss holds 
In its pure crimson goblets, fresh and bright. 
The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile 
And let me hear once more the woodland verse 
I taught thee late— 'twas made for such a scene. 
[Child speaks. 

WOOD HYMN. 

Broods there some spirit here ? 
The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud ; 
^nd o'er the pools, all still and darkly clear. 
The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow'd; 
And something of a tender cloistral gloom 

Deepens the violet's bloom. 

The very light that streams 
Through the dim dewy veil of foliage round. 
Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams. 
As if it knew the place were holy ground. 
And would not startle with too bright a burst. 

Flowers, all divinely nursed. 

Wakes there some spirit here ? 

A svifift wind, fraught with change, comes rush- 
ing by. 

And leaves and waters, in its wild career, 

Shed forth sweet voices — each a mystery ! 

Surely some awful influence must pervade 
These depths of trembling shade ! 

' Yes, lightly, softly move ! 
There is a power, a presence in the woods ; 
A viewless being, that, with life and love. 
Informs the reverential solitudes; 
The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod — 
Thou, thou art here, my God ! 

And if with awe we tread 
The minster floor, beneath the storied pane, , 
And 'rnidst the mouldering banners of the dead. 
Shall the green voiceful vvild seem less thy. fane, 
Where thou alone hast built?— where arch and 
roof 

Are of thy living woof? 

The silence and the sound. 
In the lone places, breathe alike of thee ; 
The temple twilight of the gloom profound, 
The dew-cup of the frail anemone. 
The reed by everv wandering whisper thrill'd— 

All, all with thee are fill'd \ 

Oh ! purify mine eyes. 
More and yet more, by love and lowly thought, 
Thy presence, holiest One ! to recognize. 
In these majestic aisles which thou hast wrought ! 
And "midst their sea-like murmurs, teafeh mine ear 

Ever thy voice to hear ! 

And sanctify my heart 
To meet the awful sweetness of that tone 
With no faint thrill or self accusing start. 
But a deep joy the heavenly guest to own- 
Joy, such as dwelt in Eden's glorious bowers 

Ere sin had dimm'd the flowers. 



244 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Let me not know the change 
O'er nature thrown by guilt !— the boding sky, 
The hollow leaf-sounds ominous and strange, 
The weight wherewith the dark tree shadows lie! 
Father! oh! keep my footsteps pure and free, 

To walk the woods with thee ! 



PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT. 



Soul of our souls ! and safeguard of the world ! 
Sustain — Thou only canst — the sick at heart, 
Restore their languid spirits, and recall 
Their lost aiiections unto thee and thine. 

Wordsworth. 



NisHT — holy night !— the time 
For mind's free breathings in a purer clime! 
Night ! when in happier hour the unveiling sky 

Woke all my kindled soul. 
To meet its revelations, clear and high, 
With the strong joy of immortality ; 

Now hath strange sadness wrapt me— strange and 

deep — 
And my thoughts faint, and shadows o'er them roll, 
E'en when I deem'd them seraph-plumed, to sweep 
Far beyond earth's control. 

Wherefore is this ? — T see the stars returning. 
Fire after fire in Heaven's rich temple burning — 
Fast shine they forth — my spirit friends, my guides, 
Bright rulers of my being'siiimost tides; 
They shine — but faintly, through a quivering 

haze — 
Oh ! is the dimness mine which clouds those rays ? 
They from whose glance my childhood drank de- 
light ! 
A joy unquestioning — a love intense — 
They, that unfolding to more thoughtful sight. 
The harmony of their magnificence. 
Drew silently the worship of my youth 
To the grave sweetness on the brow of truth ; 
Shall they shower blessings, with their beams di- 
vine, 
Down to the watcher on the stormy sea. 
And to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine 
Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine, 

And to the wanderer lone 

On wastes of Afric thrown, 
And not to iiiel 

Am I a thing forsaken. 

And is the gladness taken 
From the bright-pinion'd nature which hath soar'd 
Through realms by royal eagle ne'er explored, 
And, bathing there in streams of fiery light. 
Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite ? 

And now an alien ! — Wherefore must this be ? 

How shall I rend the chain ! 

How drink rich life again 
Prom those pure urns of radiance, swelling free ? 
Father of Spirits ! let me turn to thee ! 

Oh ! if too much exulting in her dower. 
My soul not yet to lowly thought subdued. 

Hath stood without thee on her hill of power — 
A fearful and a dazzling solitude ! 

And therefore from that haughty summit's crown. 

To dim desertion is by thee cast down ; 

Behold! thy child submissively hath bow'd— 
Shine on him through the cloud ! 

Let the now darken'd earth and curtain'd heaven 
Back to his vision with thy face be given ! 
Bear him on high once more. 
But in thy strength to soar. 
And wrapt and still by that o'ershadowing might, 
Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chasten- 
ed sight. 

Or if it be, that like the ark's lone dove. 
My thoughts go forth, and find no resting-place, 
No sheltering home of sympathy and love. 
In the responsive bosoms of my race, 



And back return, a darkness and a weight, 
Till my unanswer'd heart grows desolate — 
Yet, yet sustain me. Holiest ! — I am vow'd 

To solemn service high ; 
And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow'd. 
Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary. 
Fainting beneath the burden of the day, 

Because no human tone, 

Unto the altar-stone. 
Of that pure spousal fane inviolate. 
Where it should make eternal truth its mate. 
May cheer the sacred solitary way ? 

Oh ! be the whisper of thy voice within 
Enough to strengthen ! Be the hope to win 
A more deep-seeing homage for thy name. 
Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame ! 
Make me thine only ! Let me add but one 
To those refulgent steps all undetiled. 

Which glorious minds have piled 
Thro' bright self-oflering, earnest, child-like, lone 

For mounting to thy throne ! 

And let my soul, upborne 

On wings of inner morn. 
Find, in illumined secrecy, the sense 
Of that blest work, its own high recompense. 

The dimness molts away. 
That on your glory lay, 

O ye majestic watchers of the skies ! 
Through the dissolving veil, 
Which made each aspect pale. 

Your gladd'iiing fires once more I recognize ; 
And once again a shower 
Of hope, and joy, and power, 

Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes. 

And, if that splendour to my sober'd sight 
Come tremulous, with more of pensive light- 
Something, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught. 
With more that pierces thro' each fold of thought 
Than I was wont to trace 
On Heaven's unshadow'd face — 
Be it e'en so!r— be mine, though set apart 
Unto a radiant ministry, yet still 
A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart ; 
Bow'd before thee, O Mightiest ! whose blest will 
All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil. 



THE TRAVELLER'S EVENING SONG. 



Father, guide me ! Day declines. 
Hollow winds are in the pines ; 
Darkly waves each giant bough 
O'er tile sky's last crimson glow; 
Hush'd is now the convent's bell. 
Which erewhile with breezy swell 
From the purple mountains bore 
Greeting to the sunset-shore. 
Now the sailor's vesper-hymn 

Dies away. 
Father ! in the forest dim, 

Be my stay ! 

In the low and shivering thrill 
Of the leaves that late hung still ; 
In the dull and muffled tone 
Of the sea-wave's distant moan ; 
In the deep tints of the sky. 
There are signs of tempest nigh. 
Ominous, with sullen sound, 
Falls the closing dusk around. 
Father ! through the storm and shade 

O'er the wild. 
Oh ! be Thou the lone one's aid — 

Save thy child I 

Many a swift and sounding plume 
Homewards, through the boding gloom. 
O'er my way hath flitted fast. 
Since the farewell sunbeam pass'd 
From the chestnut's ruddy bark, 
And the pools, now lone and dark, 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



245 



Where the wakening night-winds sigh 

Through the long reeds mournfully. 

Homeward, homeward, all things haste- 
God of might ! 

Shield the homeless 'midst the waste, 
Be his light ! 

In his distant cradle nest. 
Now my babe is laid to rest ; 
Beautiful his slumber seems 
With a glow of heavenly dreams, 
Beautiful, o'er that bright sleep, 
Hang soft eyes of fondness deep, 
Where his mother bends to pray, 
For the loved and far away. — 
Father ! guard that household bower. 

Hear that prayer ! 
Back, through thine all-guiding power, 

Lead me there ! 

Darker, wilder, grows the night — 
Not a star sends quivering light 
Through the massy arch of shade 
By the stern old forest made. 
Thou ! to whose unslumbering eyes 
All my pathway open lies. 
By thy Son, who knew distress 
In the lonely wilderness. 
Where no roof to that blest head 

Shelter gave — 
Father ! through the time of dread, 

Save, oh ! save ! 



BURIAL OF AN EMIGRANT'S CHILD 
IN THE FORESTS. 



Scene. — The banks of a solitary river in an Ame- 
rican Forest. Ji tent under pine-trees in the fore- 
ground. Agnes sitting before the tent with a child 
in her arms, apparently sleeping. 

Jlgnes. Surely 'tis all a dream — a fever-dream ! 
The desolation and the agony — 
The strange red sunrise — and the gloomy woods. 
So terrible with their dark giant boughs. 
And the broad lonely river ! all a dream ! 
And my boy's voice will wake me, with its clear. 
Wild, singing tones, as they were wont to come, 
Through the wreath'd sweet-brier at my lattice 

panes. 
In happy, happy England ! Speak to me ! 
Speak to thy mother, bright one ! she hath watch'd 
All the dread night beside thee, til! her brain 
Is darken'd by swift waves of fantasies. 
And her soul faint with longing for thy voice. 
Oh ! I must wake him with one gentle kiss 
On his fair brow! 

{Shudderingly) The strange damp thrilling 
touch ! 
The marble chill ! Now, now it rushes back — 
Now I know all \—dea.(i— dead !—ci fearful word ! 
My boy hath left me in the wilderness. 
To journey on without the blessed light 
In his deep loving eyes— he's gone— he's gone ! 

[Her Husband enters. 
Husband. Agnes, my Agnes ! hast thou look'd 
thy last 
On our sweet slumberer's face 7 The hour is come — 
The conch made ready for his last repose. 
.^gnes. Not yet ! thou canst not take him from 
me yet! 
If he but left me for a few short days. 
This were too brief a gazing time, to draw 
His angel image into my fond heart. 
And fi.x its beauty there. And now — oh! noio, 
Never again the laughter of his eye 
Shall send its gladd'ning summer through my soul, 
Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay ! 
Tliou canst not take him from me. 

Husband. My beloved ! 

Is it not God hath taken hira ? the God 



That took our first-born, o'er whose early grave 
Thou didst bow down thy saint-like head, and say, 
" His will be done !" 

Agnes. Oh! that near household grave, 

Under the turf of England, soem'd not half, 
Not half so much to part me from my child 
As these dark woods. It lay beside our home. 
And I could watch the sunshine, through all hours. 
Loving and clinging to the grassy spot. 
And I could dress its greensward with fresh flow- 
ers — 
Familiar, meadow flowers. O'er thee, my babe. 
The primrose will not blossom! Oh! that now, 
Together, by thy fair young sister's side. 
We lay 'midst England's valleys ! 

Husband. Dost thou grieve, 

Agues ! that thou hast follow'd o'er the deep 
An exile's fortunes? If it thus can be, 
Then, after many a conflict cheerily met, 
My spirit sinks at last. 

Agnes. Forgive, forgive ! 

My Edmund, pardon, me ! Oh ! grief is wild — 
Forget its words, quick spray-drops from a fount 
Of unknown bitterness ! Thou art my home ! 
Mine only and my blessed one ! Where'er 
Thy warm heart beats in its true nobleness. 
There is my country ! there my head shall rest. 
And throb no more. Oh! still, by thy strong love, 
Bear up the feeble reed ! 

[Kneeling with the child in her arms. 
And thou, my God ! 
Hear my soul's cry from this dread wilderness. 
Oh ! hear, and pardon me ! If I have made 
This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark 
Fraught with mine earthward-clinging happiness. 
Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume, 
Oh, pardon me ! 

If nature hath rebell'd, 
And from thy light turn'd wilfully away, 
Making a midnight of her agony. 
When the despairing passion of her clasp 
Was from its idol stricken at one touch 
Of thine Almighty hand— oh, pardon me ! 
By thy Son's anguish, pardon ! In the soul 
The tempests and the waves will know thy voice — 
Father, say " Peace, be still !" 

\Oivivg the child to her husband. 
Farewell, my babe ! 
Go from my bosom now to other rest ! 
With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow. 
And on thy pale calm cheek these contrite tears, 
I yield thee to thy Maker ! 

Husband. Now, my wife, 

Thine own meek holiness beams forth once more 
A light upon my path. Now shall I bear, 
From thy dear arms, the slumberer to repose — 
With a calm, trustful heart. 

Agnes. My Edmund! where— 

Where wilt thou lay him ? 

Husband. Seest thou where the spire 

Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun 
To burning gold ?— there— o'er yon willow-tuft? 
Under that native desert monument 
Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn, 
With the gray mosses of the wilderness 
Hath lined it closely through; and there breathed 

forth. 
E'en from the fullness of his own pure heart, 
A wild, sad forest hymn — a song of tears. 
Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy 
Chanting it o'er his solitary task, 
As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves, 
Perchance unconsciously. 

Agnes My gentle son ! 

Th' affectionate, the gifted!— With what joy- 
Edmund, rememberest thou? — with what bright 

joy 
His baby brother ever to his arms 
Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully 
Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair 
In that kind youthful breast ! — Oh ! now no more — 
But strengthen me, my God ! and melt my heart, 
Even to a well-spring of adoring tears. 
For many a blessing left. 

(Bending over the Child.) Once more farewell ! 
Oh ! the pale piercing sweetness of that look ! 



246 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



How can it be sustain'd ? Away, away! 

\^Jlfter a short pause. 
Edmund, my woman's nature still is weak— 
I cannot see thee render dust to dust ! 
Go thou, my husband, to thy solemn task ; 
I will rest here, and still my soul with prayer 
Till thy return. 

Husband. Then strength be with thy prayer ! 
Peace on thy bosom 1 Faith and heavenly hope 
Unto thy spirit I Fare thee well awhile ! 
We must be pilgrims of the woods again, 
After this mournful hour. 

[He goes out with the child. Agnes kneels in 
prayer. jSfter a time, voices without are heard 
singing 

THE FUNERAL HYMN. 
Where the long reeds quiver, 

Wliere the pines make moan, 
By the forest river. 
Sleeps our babe alone. 
England's field flowers may not deck his grave. 
Cypress shadows o'er him darkly wave. 

Woods unknown receive him, 

'Midst the mighty wild ; 
Yet with God wo leave him, 
Blessed, blessed child! 
And our tears gush o'er his lovely dust, 
Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust. 

Though his eye hath brighten'd 

Oft our weary way. 
And his clear laugh lighten'd 
Half our heart's dismay ; 
Still in hope we give back what was given, 
Yielding up the beautiful to Heaven. 

And to her who bore him. 

Her who long must weep, 

Yet shall Heaven restore him 

From his pale, sweet sleep! 

Those blue eyes of love and peace again 

Through her soul will shine, undiram'd by pain. 

Where the long reeds quiver. 

Where the pines make moan. 
Leave we by the river. 
Earth to earth alone ! 
■God and Father! may our journeyings on 
Lead to where the blessed boy is gone ! 

From the exile's sorrow. 

From the wanderer's dread 
Of the night and morrow. 
Early, brightly fled ; 
Thou hast call'd him to a sweeter home 
Than our lost one o'er the ocean's foam. 

Now let thought behold him 

With his angel look, 
Where those arms enfold him. 
Which benignly took 
Israel's babes to their Good Shepherd's breast. 
When his voice their tender meekness blest. 

Turn thee now, fond mother! 

From thy dead, oh, turn ! 
Linger not, young brother. 
Here to dream and mourn : 
Only kneel once more around the sod, 
Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to God ! 



EASTER-DAY 
IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCH-YARD. 



There is a wakening on the mighty hills, 
A kindling with the spirit of the morn ! 
Bright gleams are scattor'd from the thousand rills, 
And a soft visionary hue is born 

On the young foliage, worn 
By all the embosom'd woods— a silvery green. 
Made up of spring and dew, harmoniously serene. 



And lo ! where floating through a glory, sings 
The lark, alone amidst a crystal sky ! 
Lo ! where the darkness of his buoyant Wings, 
Against a soft and rosy cloud on high, 

Trembles with melody ! 
While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice 
To the rich laugh of music in that voice. 

But purer light than of the early sun 
Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth ! 
And for your dwellers nobler joy is won 
Than the sweet echoes of the skylark's mirth. 

By this glad morning's birth ! 
And gifts more precious by its breath are shed 
Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet's 
head. 

Gifts for the soul, from whose illumin'd eye, 
O'er nature's face the colouring glory flows ; 
Gifts from the fount of immortality. 
Which, iiird with balm, unknown to human woes. 

Lay hush'd in dark repose. 
Till thou, bright day-spring ! mad'st its waves our 

own. 
By thine unsealing of the burial-stone. 

Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye hills I 
And let a full victorious tone be given, 
By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills 
Your urn -like de-pths with sound! The tomb is 

riven. 

The radiant gate of Heaven 
Unfolded— and the stern, dark shadow cast 
By death's o'ersweeping wing, from tire earth's 

bosom past. 

And you, ye graves ! upon whose turf I stand, 
Girt with the slumber of the hamlet's dead. 
Time with a soft and reconciling hand 
The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread 

O'er every narrow bed: 
But not by time, and not by nature sown 
Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace 
hath grown. 

Christ hath arisen I oh! not one cherish'd head 
Hath, 'midst the flowery sods, been pillow'd here 
Without a hope, (howe'er the heart hath bled 
In its vain yearnings o'er the unconscious bier,) 

A hope, upspringing clear 
From those majestic tidings of the morn. 
Which lit the living way to all of woman born. 

Thou hast wept mournfully, O human love ! 
E'en on this greensward ; night hath heard thy cry. 
Heart-stricken one ! thy precious dust above. 
Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply 

Unto thine agony ! 
But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide, 
Christ hath arisen, O love! thy tears shall all be 
dried. 

Dark must have been the gushing of those tears. 
Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb 
On thine impassion'd soul, in elder years 
When, burden'd with the mystery of its doom. 

Mortality's thick gloom 
Hung o'er the sunny world, and with the breath 
Of the tri\iraphant rose came blending thoughts of 
death. 

By thee, sad Love, and by thy sister. Fear, 
Then, was the ideal robe of beauty wrought 
To veil that haunting shadow, still too near, 
Still ruling secretly the conqueror's thought. 
And where the board was fraught 
With wine and myrtles in the summer-bower. 
Felt, e'en when disavow'd, a presence and a power. 

But that dark night is closed : and o'er the dead. 
Here, where the gleamy primrose tufts have blown, 
And where the mountain heath a couch has 

spread. 
And, settling oft on some gray-letter'd stone; 

The red-breast warbles lone ; 
And the wild bee's deep, drowsy murmurs pass 
Like a low thrill of harp-strings through the grass. 



SCENES AND ^YMNS OF LIFE. 



247 



Here, 'midst the chambers of the Christian's sleep, 
IVe o'er death's gulf may look with trusting eye, 
For hope sits, dove-like, on the gloomy deep, 
And the green hills wherein these valleys lie 

Seem all one sanctuary 
Of holiest thought — nor needs their fresh bright 

sod. 
Urn, wreath or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to 

God. 

Christ hath arisen !— O mountain peaks ! attest, 
Witness, resounding glen and torrent-wave, 
The immortal courage in the human breast 
Sprung from that victory— tell how oft the brave 

To camp 'midst rock and cave. 
Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have 

borne. 
Planting the cross on high above the clouds of 

morn. 

The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-day- 
Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone. 
Have thrill'd their pines, when those that knelt 

to pray 
Rose up to arm ! the pure, high snows have known 

A colouring not their own. 
But from true hearts which by that crimson stain 
Gave token of a trust that call'd no suflering vain. 

Those days are past — the mountains wear no 

more 
The solemn splendour of the martyr's blood. 
And may that awful record, as of yore. 
Never again bo known to field or flood I 

E'en though the faithful stood, 
A noble army, in the e.xulting sight 
Of earth and heaven, which blest their battle for 

the right ! 

But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken 
Is yet borne silently in homes obscure ; 
And many a bitter cup is meekly taken ; 
And, for the strength whereby the just and pure 

Thus steadfastly endure. 
Glory to Him whose victory won that dower. 
Him, from whose rising stream'd that robe of spirit 
power. 

Glory to Him ! Hope to the suffering breast! 
Lijjht to the nations ! He hath roll'd away 
The mists, which, gathering into deathlike rest, 
Between the soul and Heaven's calm ether lay — 

His love hath made it day 
With those that sat in darkness.— Earth and sea! 
Lift up glad strains for man by truth divine made 
free ! 



THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE. 

"A dancing shape, an imaje gay, 
To haunt, to startle, to waylay. 

A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death." 

Wordsworth. 



I SAW him at his sport erewhile, 

The bright exulting boy. 
Like summer's lightning came the smile 

Of his young spirit's joy ; 
A flash that wheresoe'er it broke, 
To life undreamt-of beauty woke. 

His fair locks waved in sunny play. 

By a clear fountain's side, 
Where jewel-colour'd pebbles lay 

Beneath the shallow tide ; 
And pearly spray at times would meet 
The glancing of his fairy feet. 

He twined him wreaths of all spring-flowers. 
Which drank that streamlet's dew ; 

He flung them o'er the wave in showers. 
Till, gazing, scarce I knew 

Which seem'd more pure, or bright, or wild. 

The singing fount or lj;ughing child. 



To look on all that joy and bloom 

Made earth one festal scene. 
Where the dull shadow of the tomb 

Seem'd as it ne'er had been. 
How could one image of decay. 
Steal o'er the dawn of such clear day? 

I saw once more that aspect bright — 

The boy's meek head was bovv'd 
In silence o'er the Book of Light, 

And like a golden cloud, 
The still cloud of a pictured sky — 
His locks droop'd round it lovingly. 

And if ray heart had deem'd him fair. 

When in the fountain glade, 
A creature of the sky and air. 

Almost on wings he play'd ; 
Oh! how much holier beauty now 
Lit the young human being's brow ! 

The being born to toil, to die. 

To break forth from the tomb, 
Unto far nobler destiny 

Than waits the sky-lark's plume! 
I saw him, in that thoughtful hour. 
Win the first knowledge of his dower. 

The soul, the awakening soul I saw, 

My watching eye could trace 
The shadows of its new-born awe, 

Sweeping o'er that fair face : 
As o'er a flower might pass the shade 
By some dread angel's pinion made ! 

The soul, the mother of deep fears, 

Of high hopes infinite. 
Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears. 

Of sleepless inner sight ; 
Lovely, but solemn, it arose, 
Unfolding what no more might close. 

The red-leaved tablets,* undefiled, 

As yet, by evil thought — 
Oh ! little dream'd the brooding child. 

Of what within me wrought. 
While his young heart first burn'd and stirr'd, 
And quiver'd to tjie eternal word. 

And reverently my spirit caught 

The reverence of his gaze; 
A sight with dew of blessing fraught 

To hallow after-days ; 
To make the proud heart meekly wise, 
By the sweet faith in those calm eyes. 

It seem'd as if a temple rose 

Before me brightly there. 
And in the depths of its repose 

My soul o'erflow'd with prayer, 
Feeling a solemn presence nigh — 
The power of infant sanctity ! 

O Father ! mould my heart once more, 

By thy prevailing breath ! 
Teach me, oh ! teach me to adore 

E'en with that pure one's faith ; 
A faith, all made of love and light, 
Child-like, and, therefore, full of might ! 



A POET'S DYING HYMN. 



Be mute who will, who can. 
Yet I will praise thee with impassion'd voice ! 
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine 
In such a temple as we now behold, 
Eear'd for thy presence ; therefore am I bound 
To worship, here and everywhere. 



The blue, deep, glorious heavens !— I lift mine eye. 
And bless thee, O my God ! that I have met 

And own'd thine image in the majesty 
Of their calm tempfe still !— that never yet 

-■"All this, and more than this, is now engraved upon the rea 
leaved tabids of my hedsV —Haywood. 



248 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight 
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse, 
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine. 

Touching deatii's features with a lovely glance 
Of light, serenely, solemnly divine, 

And lending to each holy star a ray 

As of liind eyes, that woo my soul away : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That I have heard thy voice, nor been afraid. 
In the earth's garden — 'midst the mountains old. 

And the low thrillings of the forest shade. 
And the wild sounds of waters uncontroU'd, 

And upon many a desert plain and shore — 

No solitude — for there I felt thee more : 

I bless thee, O my God ! 

And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed 
The gift, the vision of the unseal'd eye. 

To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread. 
To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie 

Far in man's heart— if I have kept it free 

And pure — a consecration unto thee : 

I bless thee, O my God ! 

If my soul's utterance hath by thee been fraught 
With an awakening power— if thou hast made, 

Like the wing'd seed, the breathings of my thought, 
And by the swift winds bid them be convey'd 

To lands of other lays, and there become 

Native as early melodies of home : 

I bless thee, O my God ! 

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath. 
Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead. 

But that perchance, a faint gale of thy breath, 
A still small whisper in my song hath led 

One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne. 

Or but one hope, one prayer: — for this alone 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That I have loved— that I have known the love 
Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs, 

Yet, with a colouring halo from above. 
Tinges and glorifies all earthly things, 

Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be. 

Still weaving links for intercourse with thee : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That by the passion of its deep distress, 
And by the o'erflovving of its mighty prayer. 

And by the yearning of its tenderness, 
Too full for words upon their stream to bear, 

I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine. 

Well-spring of love, the unfathom'd, the divine ; 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken, 
High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or 
dread. 
Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken, 

Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed; 
That passing storms have only fann'd the fire, 
Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire, 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

Now art thou calling me in every gale. 
Each sound and token of the dying day : 

Thou leav'st me not, though early life grows pale, 
1 am not darkly sinking to decay ; 

But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud 

Melts oflT to radiance, as a silvery cloud. 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

And if this earth, with all its choral streams. 
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies, 

And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams, 
Be lovely still in my departing eyes— 

'Tis not that fondly I would linger here. 

But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 



And that the tender shadowing I behold. 
The tracery veining every leaf and flovirer. 

Of glories cast in more consummate mould. 
No longer vassals to the changeful hour ; 

That life's last roses to my thoughts can bring 

Rich visions of imperishable spring : 

I bless thee, O my God ! 

Yes ! the young vernal voices in the skies 
Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear, 

Seem heralds of th' eternal melodies, 
The spirit-music, imperturb'd and clear; 

The full of soul, yet passionate no more — 

Let me too, joining those pure strains, adore! 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

Now aid, sustain me still ! — to thee I come. 
Make thou my dwelling where thy children are ! 

And for the hope of that'immortal home. 
And for thy Son, the bright and morning star, 

The sutferer and the victor-king of death, 

I bless thee with my glad song's dying breath ! 
I bless thee, O my God ! 



THE 

FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 



Many an eye 
May wail the dimming of our shining star. 

Shakspeare. 

A glorious voice hath ceased ! — 
Mournfully, reverently — the funeral chant 
Breathe reverently ! — There is a dreamy sound, 
A hollow murmur of the dying year. 
In the deep woods ; — Let it be wild and sad ! 
A more jEolian melancholy tone 
Than ever wail'd o'er bright things perishing ! 
For that is passing from the darken'd land. 
Which the green summer will not bring us back — 
Though all her songs return — The funeral chant 
Breathe reverently!— They bear the mighty forth. 
The kingly ruler in the realms of mind — 
They bear him through the household paths, the 

groves. 
Where every tree had music of its own 
To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love — 
And he is silent! — Past the living stream 
They bear him now ; the stream, whose kindly 

voice 
On alien shores his true heart burn'd to hear — 
And he is silent. O'er the heathery hills. 
Which his own soul had mantled with a light 
Richer than autumn's purple, now they move — 
And he is silent ! — he, whose flexile lips 
Were but unseal'd, and, lo ! a thousand forms, 
From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height, 
In glowing life upsprang: — Vassal and chief, 
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal. 
Fast rushing through the brightly troubled air. 
Like the wild huntsman's band. And still they 

live. 
To those fair scenes imperishably bound. 
And, from the mountain mist still flashing by, 
Startle the wanderer who hath listen'd there 
To the seer's voice : phantoms of colour'd thought. 
Surviving him who raised. — O eloquence ! 
O power, whose breathings thus could wake the 

dead! 
Who shall wake thee? lord of the buried past ! 
And art thou there — to those dim nations join'd. 
Thy subject host so long?— The wand is dropp'd. 
The bright lamp broken which the gifted hand 
Touch'd and the genii came !— Sing reverently 
The funeral chant!— The mighty is borne home— 
And who shall be his mourners ? — Youth and age, 
For each hath felt his magic— love and grief. 
For he hath communed with the heart of each: 
Yes — the free spirit of humanity 
May join the august procession, for to him 
Its mysteries have been tributary things. 
And all its accents known :— from field or wave, 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



249 



Never was conqueror on his battle bier, 
By the vail'd banner and the muffled drum. 
And the proud drooping of the crested head, 
More nobly follow'd home.— The last abode, 
The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach'd: 
A still majestic spot 1 girt solemnly 
With all th' im[)Ioring beauty of decay ; 
A stately couch 'midst ruins! meet for him 
With his bright fame to rest in, as a king 
Of other days, laid lonely with his sword 
Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant 
O'er the honour'd grave ! — the grave!— oh, say 
Rather the shrine !— An altar for the love. 
The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths 
Of years unborn — a place where leaf and flower. 
By that which dies not of the sovereign dead. 
Shall be made holy things— where every weed 
Shall have its portion of th' inspiring gift 
From buried glory breathed. And now, what strain, 
Making victorious melody ascend 
High above sorrow's dirge, befits the tomb 
Where he that sway'd the nations thus is laid— 
The crown'd of men ? 

A lowly, lowly song. 

Lowly and solemn be 
Thy children's cry to thee, 

Father divine ! 
A hymn of suppliant breath, 
Owning that life and death 

Alike are thine I 

A spirit on its way, 
Sceptred the earth to sway, 

From thee was sent : 
Now call'st thou back thine own- 
Hence is that radiance flown — 

To earth but lent. 

Watching in breathless awe, 
The bright head bow'd v/e saw, 

Beneath thy hand ! 
Fill'd by one hope, one fear. 
Now o'er a brother's bier. 

Weeping we stand. 

How hath he pass'd !— the lord 
Of each deep bosom chord, 

To meet thy sight, 
Unmantled and alone. 
On thy blest mercy thrown, 

O Infinite ! 

So, from his harvest home, 
Must the tired peasant come ; 

So, in one trust, 
Leader and king must yield 
The naked soul, reveal'd 

To thee. All Just ! 

The sword of many a fight— 
What then shall be its might? 

The lofty lay. 
That rush'd on eagle wing— 
What shall its memory bring? 

What hope, what stay ? 

O Father ! in that hour. 

When earth all succouring power 

Shall disavow; 
When spear, and shield, and crown. 
In faintness are cast down — 

Sustain us, Thou ! 

By Him who bow'd to take 
The death-cup for our sake. 

The thorn, the rod ; 
From whom the last dismay 
Was not to pass away — 

Aid us, O God ! 

Tremblers beside the grave. 
We call on thee to save. 

Father, divine ! 
Hear, hear our suppliant breath, 
Keep us, in life and death 

Thine, only thine! 

32 



THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS. 

Suggested by a Picture of Corregio's. 



In the deep wilderness unseen she pray'd, 

The daughter of Jerusalem ; alone, 

With all the still small whispers of the night, 

And with the searching glances of the stars, 

And with her God, alone:— she lifted up 

Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o'er her head. 

The dark leaves thrill'd with prayer— the tearfu 

prayer 
Of woman's quenchless, yet repentant love. 

Father of Spirits, hear ! 
Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal'd, 
Look on the fountain of the burning tear, 
Before thy sight in solitude unseal'd"! 

Hear, Father! hear, and aid! 
If I have loved too well, if I have shed. 
In my vain fondness, o'er a mortal head, 
Gifts, on thy shrine, my God ! more fitly laid. 

If I have sought to live 
But in one light, and made a human eye 
The lonely star of mine idolatry. 
Thou that art Love ! oh, pity and forgive ! 

Chasten'd and school'd at last. 
No more, no more my struggling spirit burns, 
But fix'd on thee, from that wild worship turns — 
What have I said ?— the deep dream is not past I 

Yet hear !— if still I love. 
Oh! still too fondly — if, forever seen. 
An earthly image comes, my heart between. 
And thy calm gfory. Father ! throned above ! 

If still a voice is near, 
(E'en while I strive these wanderings to control,) 
An earthly voice, disquieting my soul 
With its deep music, too intensely dear. 

Father draw to thee 

My lost affections back!— the dreaming eyes 
Clear from their mist— sustain the heart that dies, 
Give the worn soul once more its pinions free ! 

1 must love on, O God! 

This bosom must love on ! but let thy breath 
Touch and make pure the flame that knows no 

death, 
Bearing it up to Heaven !— Love's own abode! 

Ages and ages past, the wilderness. 
With its dark cedars, and the thrilling night. 
With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds. 
That waft all sound, were conscious of those 

prayers. 
How many such hath woman's bursting heart 
Since then, in silence and in darkness breathed, 
Like the dim night-flower's odour, up to God? 



HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS 
IN TIMES OF PERSECUTION. 



' Thanks be to God for the mountains !" 

Hamtt's Booh of the Seasons. 



For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 
Thou hast made thy children mighty. 

By the touch of the mountain sod. 
Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge 

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

We are watchers of a beacon 

Whose light must never die ; 
We are guardians of an altar 

'Midst the silence of the sky : 



250 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



The rocks yield founts of courage, 

Struck forth as by thy rod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

For the dark resounding caverns, 

Where thy still, small voice is heard ; 
For the strong pines of the forests. 

That by thy breath are stirr'd ; 
For the storms, on whose free pinions 

Thy spirit walks abroad; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 

Our God, our fathers' God! 

The royal eagle dartetli 

On his quarry from the heights, 
And the stag that knows no master. 

Seeks there his wild delights ; 
But we, for th]i communion. 

Have sought the mountain sod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

The banner of the chieftain, 

Far, far below us waves; 
The war-horse of the spearman 

Cannot reach our lofty caves: 
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold 

Of freedom's last abode ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

For the shadow of thy presence. 

Round our camp of rock outspread ; 
For the stern defiles of battle. 

Bearing record of our dead ; 
For the snows and for the torrents, 

For the free heart's burial sod: 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 



PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE. 

A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.* 



From their spheres 
The stars of human glory are cast down ; 
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings, 
Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms 
Of all the mighty, wither'd and consumed I 
Nor is power given to lowliest innocence 
Long to protect her own. 

Wordsvcotth. 



Scene— Prison of the Luxembourg, in Paris, during 
the Reign of Terror. 

D'AuBiGNE, an aged Royalist — Blanche, his 
Daughter, a young girl. 

Blanche. What was our doom, my father ?— In 
thine arms 
I lay unconsciously through that dread hour. 
Tell me the sentence!— Could our judges look. 
Without relenting, on thy silvery hair ? 
Was there not mercy, father ?— Will they not 
Restore us to our home. 

D'Jiuhigne. Yes, my poor child ! 

They send us home. 

Blanche. Oh ! shall we gaze again 

On the bright Loire';— Will the old hamlet spire. 
And the gray turret of our own chateau. 
Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms ? 
Will the kind voices of our villagers, 
The loving laughter in their children's eyes. 
Welcome us back at last ? — But how is this? — 
Father! thy glance is clouded — on thy brow. 
There sits no joy I 



* The last days of two prisoners in the Luxemtiourg, Sillery and 
La Source, so affpctingly described hy Helen Maria Williams, in 
her Letlers from France, gave rise to this little scene. These two 
victims had composed a simple hymn, which they every night sung 
together iu a low and restrained voice. 



D'jSubigne. Upon my brow, dear girl. 
There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace 
As may befit the Christian, who receives 
And recognizes, in submissive awe, 
The summons of his God. 

Blanche. Thou dost not mean — 

No, no I it cannot be !— Didst thou not say 
They sent us home ? 

D'Jiuhigni. Where is the spirit's home 1— 

Oh ! most of all, in these (Jark evil days, 
Where should it be— but in that world serene, 
Beyond the sword's reach, and the tempest's pow- 
er — 
Where, but in Heaven? 

Blanche. My father! 

D'Aubigne. • We must die 

We must look up to God, and calmly die.— 
Come to my heart, and weep there 1 — for awhile 
Give Nature's passion way, then brightly rise 
In the still courage of a woman's heart ! 
Do I not know thee ? — Do I ask too much 
From mine own noble Blanche ? 

Blanche, {falling on his bosom.) Oh! clasp me 
fast! 
Thy trembling child! — Hide, hide me in thine 

arms — 
Father ! 

D'Aubigne. Alas! my flower, thou'rt young to 
go- 
Young, and so fair!— Yet were it worse methinks, 
To leave thee where the gentle and the brave. 
The loyal-hearted and the chivalrous, 
And they that loved their God, have all been swept, 
Like the sere leaves, away.— For them no hearth 
Through the wide land was left inviolate, 
No altar holy ; therefore did they fall. 
Rejoicing to depart. — The soil is steep'd 
In noble blood ! the temples are gone down ; 
The voice of prayer is hush'd, or fearfully 
Mutter'd, like sounds of guilt.— Why, who would 

live? 
Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee. 
To quit for ever the dishonour'd soil, 
TliB burden'd air? — Our God upon the cross — 
Our king upon the scaflbld''' — let us think 
Of these— BlwA fold endurance to our hearts. 
And bravely die ! 

Blanche. A dark and fearful way! 

An evil doom for thy dear honour'd head! 
Oh ! thou, the kind, the gracious !— whom all eyes 
Bless'd as they look'd upon !— Speak yet again — 
Say, will they part us ? 

D'Aubigne. No, my Blanche ; in death 

We shall not be divided. 

Blanche. Thanks to God ! 

He, by thy glance, will aid me— I shall see 
His light before me to the last. — And when — 
Oh ! pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child ! — 
When shall the hour befall ? 

D'Aubigne. Oh ! swiftly now, 

And suddenly, with brief dread interval. 
Comes down the mortal stroke. — But of that hour 
As yet I know not. — Each low throbbing pulse 
Of the quick pendulum may usher in 
Eternity ! 
Blanche, (kneeling before him.) My father! lay 
thy hand 
On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again 
Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness. 
Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul. 
Ere we are call'd. 

D'Aubigne. If I may speak through tears ! — 
Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently. 
Child of my heart ! — thou who dost look on me 
With thy lost mother's angel eyes of love ! 
Thou that hast been a brightness In my path, 
A guest of Heaven unto my lonely soul, 
A stainless lily in ray widow'd house. 



* A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, and hear- 
ing some one near him uttering the most plaintive lamentatinns, 
turned towards the sufferer, and thus addressed him : "My friend, 
whoever you may be, remember that your God expired upon the 
cross — your king upon the scaffold — and he who now speaks to you 
has had his limbs shot from under him. Meet your fate as becomes 
a Qiau." 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



251 



There springing up — with soft light round thee 

shed — 
For immortality !— Meek child of God ! 
I bless thee — He will bless thee! — In his love 
He calls thee now from this rude stormy world 
To thy Redeemer's breast. — And thou wilt die ! 
As thou hast lived — my duteous, holy i3lanche ! 
In trusting and serene submissiveness, 
Humble, yet full of Heaven. 

Blanche, (rising.) Now is there strength 

Infused through all my spirit. — I can rise 
And say, "Thy will be done !" 
D'Mubigne, (pointing- upwards.) See'st thou, my 
child, 
Yon faint light in the west ? The signal star 
Of our due vesper service, gleaming in 
Through the close dungeon grating! Mournfully 
It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass, 
This night alone, without the lifted voice 
Of adoration in our narrow cell, 
As if unworthy Fear or wavering Faith 
Silenced the strain? — No! let it waft to Heaven 
The prayer, the hope of poor mortality. 
In its dark hour once more ! — And we will sleep — 
Yes— calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed. 

[ They sing together. 
prisoners' evening hymn. 
We see no more in thy pure skies. 
How soft, O God ! the sunset dies: 
How every colour'd hill and wood 
Seems melting in the golden flood : 
Yet, by the precious memories won 
From bright hours now for ever gone. 
Father ! o'er all thy works, we know. 
Thou still art shedding beauty's glow ; 
Still touching every cloud and tree 
With glory, eloquent of Thee; 
Still feeding all thy flowers with light. 
Though man hath barr'd it from our sight. 
We know Thou reign'st, the Unchanging One, th' 

All Just ! 
And bless thee still with free and boundless trust! 

We read no more, O God ! thy ways 

On earth, in these wild evil days. 

The red sword in th' oppressor's hand 

Is ruler of the weeping land ; 

Fallen are the faithfuland the pure. 

No shrine is spared, no hearth secure. 

Yet, by the deep voice from the past. 

Which tells us these things cannot last — 

And by the hope which finds no ark, 

Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark — 

We trust thee ! — As the sailor knows 

That in its place of bright repose 

His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud 

May veil it with a midnight shroud. 

We know thou reign'st!— AlfHoly One, All Just ! 

And bless thee still with love's own boundless trust. 

We feel no more that aid is nigh. 

When our faint hearts within us die. 

We suffer — and we know our doom 

Must be one suffering till the tomb. 

Yet, by the anguish of thy Son 

When his last hour came darkly on — 

By his dread cry, the air which rent 

In terror of abandonment — 

And by his parting word, which rose 

Through faith victorious o'er all woes — 

We know that Thou mayst wound, mayst break 

The spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake! 

Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn. 

In our deep need to Thee we. turn ! 

To whom but Tliee?— All Merciful, All Just! 

In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust. 



PRAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY. 

The land shall never rue 
So England to herself do prove but true. 

Shahsjieare. 



The sons of Kngland knelt. 
With hearts that now could melt. 
For on the wave her battle had been won. 

Round their tall ship, the main 
Heaved with a dark red stain. 

Caught not from sunset's cloud : 
While with the tide swept past 
Pennon andshiver'd mast, 
Which to tlie OceanCiueen that day had bow'd. 

But free and fair on high, 
A native of the sky. 

Her streamer met the breeze ; 
It flow'd o'er fearless men. 
Though hush'd and child-like then. 
Before their God they gather'd on the seas. 

Oh ! did not thoughts of home 
O'er each bold spirit come 

As from the land, sweet gales ? 
In every word of prayer 
Hath not some hearth a share. 
Some bower, inviolate 'midst England's vales? 

Yes ! bright green spots that lay 
In beauty far away. 

Hearing no billows roar ; 
Safer from touch of spoil. 
For that day's fiery toil. 
Rose on high hearts, that now with love gush'd o'er. 

A solemn scene, and dread! 
The victors and the dead. 

The breathless burning sky I 
And, passing with the race 
Of waves, that keep no trace. 
The wild, brief signs of human victory I 

A stern, j'et holy scene ! 
Billows Vvhere strife hath been, 

Sinking to awful sleep : 
And words that breathe the sense 
Of God's omnipotence. 
Making a minster of that silent deep. 

Borne through such hours afar. 
Thy flag hath been a star. 

Where eagle's wing ne'er flew: — 
England ! the unprofaned. 
Those of the hearths unstain'd, 
Oh ! to the banner and the shrine be true I 



Through evening's bright repose 
A voice of prayer arose. 

When the sea-fight was done : 



THE INDIAN'S REVENGE. 

SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY.* 

But by my wrongs and by my wrath, 
Tn-morrow Areouski's breath 
That fires yon Heaven with storms of death, 
Shall guide me to the foe ! 

Indian Song in " Gertrude of IVyoming." 



Scene — The shore of a Lake .■surrounded by deep 
woods. S solitary cabin on its banks, mtershadowed 
by maple and sycamore trees. Herrmann, the 
missionary, seated alone before the cabin. The 
hour is evening twilight. 

Herrmann. Was that the light from some lone 
swift canoe 
Shooting across the waters ?— No, a flash 
From the night's first quick fire-fly, lost again 
In the deep hay of cedars. Not a bark 
Is on the wave ; no rustle of a breeze 
Comes through the forest. In this new, strange 

world. 
Oh ! how mysterious, how eternal, seems 
The mighty melancholy of the woods! 
The desert's own great spirit, infinite! 
Little they know, in mine own father-land. 
Along the castled Rhine, or e'en amidst 



* circumstances similar to those on which tliis scene is founded, 
are recorded in Carne'sNarrative of the Moravian Missions in Green- 
land, and gave rise to the dramatic sketch. 



252 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



The wild Harz mountains, or the sylvan glades 

Deep in the Odenwald, they little know 

Of what is solitude ! In hours like this, 

There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage hearths 

Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices, 

To guide the peasant, singing cheerily. 

On the home path; while round his lowly porch, 

With eager eyes awaiting his return. 

The cluster'd faces of his children shine 

To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts! 

Melting my spirit's grasp from heavenly hope 

By your vain earthward yearnings. O my God ! 

Draw me still nearer, closer unto thee, 

Till all the hollow of these deep desires 

May with thyself be fiU'd !— Be it enough 

At once to gladden and to solemnize 

My lonely life, if for thine altar here 

In this dread temple of the wilderness, 

By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win 

The ofiering of one heart, one human heart, 

Bleeding, repenting, loving! 

Hark ! a step. 
An Indian tread ! I know the stealthy sound — 
'Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass 
Gliding so serpent-like. 

[He comes forward and meets an Indian 
warrior armed. 

Enonio, is it thou ? I see thy form 
Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mine eye 
Discerns thy face. 

Enonio. My father speaks my name. 

Herrmann. Are not the hunters from the chase 
return'd ? 
The night-fires lit 1 Why is my son abroad ? 

Enonio. The warrior's arrow knows of nobler 
prey 
Than elk or deer. Now let my father leave 
The lone path free. 

Herrmann. The forest way is long 

From the red chieftain's home. Rest thee awhile 
Beneath my sycamore, and we will speak 
Of these things further. 

Enonio. Tell me not of rest ! 

My heart is sleepless, and the dark night swift.— 
I must begone. 

Herrmann, (solemnly.) No, warrior, thou must 
stay ! 
The Mighty One hath given me power to search 
Thy soul with piercing words — and thou must stay, 
And hear me, and give answer! If thy heart 
Be grown thus restless, is it not because 
Within its dark folds thou hast mantled up 
Some burnine thought of ill ? — 

Enonio, [with sudden impetuosity.) How should I 
rest?— 
Last night the spirit of my brother came. 
An angry shadow in the moonlight streak. 
And said, "Mvenge me!" — In the clouds this morn, 
I saw the frowning colour of his blood — 
And that, too, had a voice. — I lay at noon 
Alone beside the sounding waterfall. 
And through its thunder-music spake a tone — 
A low tone piercing all the roll of waves — 
And said, ''.Avenge me!" — Therefore have I raised 
The tomahawk, and strung the bow again. 
That I may send the shadow from my couch, 
And take the strange sound from the cataract, 
And sleep once more. 

Herrmann. A better path, my son, 

Unto the still and dewy land of sleep. 
My hand in peace can guide thee— e'en the way 
Thy dying brother trod.— Say, didst thou love 
That lost one well? 

Enonio. Know'st thou not we grew up 

Even as twin roes amidst the wilderness ? 
Unto the chase we journey'd in one path ; 
We stemm'd the lake in one canoe ; we lay 
Beneath one oak to rest.— When fever hung 
Upon my burning lips, my brother's hand 
Was still beneath my head ; my brother's robe 
Cover'd my bosom from the chill night air. 
Our lives were girdled by one belt of love. 
Until he turn'd him from his fathers' gods. 
And then my soul fell from him — then the grass 
Grew in the way between our parted homes, 



And wheresoe'er I wander'd, then it seem'd 
That all the woods were silent.— I went forth — 
I journey'd, with my lonely heart, afar, 
And so return'd— and where was he ?— the earth 
Own'd him no more. 

Herrmann. But thou thyself, since then, 

Hast turn'd thee from the idols of thy tribe. 
And, like thy brother, bow'd the suppliant knee 
To the one God. 

Enonio. Yes, I have learn'd to pray 

With my white father's words, yet all the more 
My heart, that shut against my brother's love, 
Hath been within me as an arrowy fire, 
Burning my sleep away. — In the night hush, 
'Midst the strange whispers and dim shadowy 

things 
Of the great forests, I have call'd aloud, 
" Brother ! forgive, forgive !" — He answer'd not — 
His deep voice, rising from the land of souls, 
Cries but '■^Avenge me!" — and I go forth now 
To slay his murderer, that when next his eyes 
Gleam on me mournfully from that pale shore, 
I may look up, and meet their glance, and say, 
" I have avenged thee." 

Herrmann. Oh ! that human love 

Should be the root of this dread bitterness. 
Till heaven through all the fever'd being pours 
Transmuting balsam ! — Stay, Enonio, stay ! 
Thy brother calls thee not !— The spirit world 
Where the departed go, sends back to earth 
No visitants for evil.— 'Tis the might 
Of the strong passion, the remorseful grief 
At work in thine own breast, which lends the voice 
Unto the forest and the cataract. 
The angry colour to the clouds of morn. 
The shadow to the moonlight. — Stay, my son ! 
Thy brother is at peace. — Beside his couch. 
When of the murderer's poison'd shaft he died, 
I knelt and pray'd ; he named his Saviour's name. 
Meekly, beseechingly; he spoke of thee 
In pity and in love. 

Enonio, (Imrriedly.) Did he not say 
My arrow should avenge him? 

Herrmann. His last words 

Were all forgiveness. 

Enonio. What ! and shall the man 

Who pierced him with the shaft of treachery, 
Walk fearless forth in joy? 

Herrmann. Was he not once 

Thy brother's friend? — Oh! trust me, not in joy 
He walks the frowning forest. Did keen lovei 
Too late repentant of its heart estranged. 
Wake in thy haunted bosom, with its train 
Of sounds and shadows — and shall he escape ? 
Enonio, dream it not! — Our God, the All Just, 
Unto himself reserves this royalty — 
The secret chastening of the guilty heart. 
The fiery touch, the scourge that purifies. 
Leave it with him ! — Yet make it not thy hope — 
For that strong heart of thine — oh ! listen yet — 
Must, in its depths, o'ercome the very wish 
For death or torture to the guilty one. 
Ere it can sleep again. 

Enonio. My father speaks 

Of change, for man too mighty. 

Herrmann. I but speak 

Of that which hath been, and again must be, 
If thou wouldst join thy brother, in the life 
Of the bright country, where, I well believe. 
His soul rejoices. — He had known such change. 
He died in peace. He, whom his tribe once named 
The Avenging Eajrle, took to his meek heart. 
In its last pangs, the spirit of those words 
Which, from the Saviour's cross, went up to hea- 
ven — 
" Forgive them, for they know not what they do. 
Father, forgive .'" — And o'er the eternal bounds 
Of that celestial kingdom, undefiled. 
Where evil may not enter, he, I deem. 
Hath to his Master pass'd.— He waits thee there— 
For love, we trust, springs heavenward from the 

grave. 
Immortal in its holiness. — He calls 
His brother to the land of golden light. 
And ever-living fountains— couldst thou hear 
His voice o'er those bright waters, it would say, 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



253 



" My brother ! oh ! be pure, be merciful I 
That we may meet again." 

Enonio, {hesitating.) Can I return 

Unto my tribe, and unavenged? 

Herrmann. To Him, 

To Him return, from whom thine erring steps 
Have wanrfer'd far and long !— Return, my son, 
To thy Redeemer ! — died he not in love — 
The sinless, the divine, the Son of God — 
Breathing forgiveness 'midst all agonies, 
And we, dare we be ruthless ? — By His aid 
Shalt thou be guided to thy brother's place 
'Midst the pure spirits.— Oh ! retrace the way 
Back to thy Saviour! he rejects no heart 
E'en with the dark stains on it, if true tears 
Be o'er them shovver'd.— Ay, weep, thou Indian 

chief! 
For by the kindling moonlight, I behold 
Thy proud lip's working— weep, relieve thy soul! 
Tears will not shame thy manhood, in the hour 
Of its great conflict. 

Enouio, [giving up his weapons to Herrmann.) 
Father, take the bow. 
Keep the sharp arrows till the hunters call 
Forth to the chase once more. — And let me dwell 
A little while, my father! by thy side, 
That I may hear the blessed words again — 
Like water-brooks amidst the summer hills — 
From thy true lips flow forth ; for in my heart 
The music and the memory of their sound 
Too long have died away. 

Herrmann. O, welcome back. 

Friend, rescued one! — Yes. thou shalt be my guest, 
And we will pray beneath my sycamore 
Together, morn and eve ; and I will spread 
Thy couch beside my fire, and sleep at last — 
After the visiting of holy thoughts — 
With dewy wing shall sink upon thine eyes — 
Enter my home, and welcome, vs'elcome back 
To peace, to God, thou lost and found again 1 

[Theij go into the cahin together — Hermann, 
lingering for a moment on the threshold, 
looks up to the starry skies. 
Father ! that from amidst yon glorious worlds 
Now look'st on us, thy children ! make this hour 
Blessed for ever ! May it see the birth 
Of thine own image in the unfathom'd deep 
Of an immortal soul; — a thing to name 
With reverential thought, a solemn world! 
To Thee more precious than those thousand stars 
Burning on high in thy majestic Heaven ! 



THE DAY OF FLOWERS. 
A mother's walk with her. child. 



One spirit — His 
Who wore the platted thorn with bleeding brows, 
Rules universal nature.— Not a flower 
But shows some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain, 
Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires 
Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues, 
And bathes their eyes with nectar. — 
Happy who walks with him. 

Cowper. 

Come to the woods, my boy ! 
Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth, 
My happy child ! The spirit of bright hours 
Wooes us in every wind; fresh wild-leaf scents 
From thickets where the lonely stock-dove broods, 
Enter onr lattice ; fitful songs of joy 
Float in with each soft current of the air; 
And we will hear their summons ; we will give 
One day to flowers, and sunshine, and glad 

thoughts, 
And thou shalt revel 'midst free nature's wealth. 
And, for thy mother, twine wild wreaths; while 

she 
From thy delight, wins to her own fond heart 
The vernal ecstasy of childhood back: — 
Come to the woods, my boy ! 
What ! wouldst thou lead already to the path 



Along the copsewood brook ? Come, then ! in truth 

Meet playmate for a child, a blessed child. 

Is a glad singing stream, heard, or unheard. 

Singing its melody of happiness 

Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace 

To that sweet chime.— With what a sparkling life 

It fills the shadowy dingle! now the wing 

Of some low-skimming swallow shakes bright 

spray 
Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave ; 
Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep, 
The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam 
And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings 
Of mazy insects o'er the shallow tide 
Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light 
From burnish'd films! And mark yon silvery line 
Of gossamer, so tremulously hung 
Across the narrow current, from the tuft 
Of hazels to the hoary poplar's bough! 
See, in the air's transparence, how it waves, 
(iiiivering and glistening with each faintest gale, 
Yet breaking not— a bridge for fairy shapes, 
How delicate, how wondrous! 

Yes, my boy ! 
Well may we make the stream's bright winding 

vein 
Our woodland guide, for He who made the stream 
Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness. 
For ever deepening. O, forget him not. 
Dear child ! that airy gladness which thou feel'st 
Wafting thee after bird and butterfly. 
As 'twere a breeze within thee, is not less 
His gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours. 
Than this rich outward sunshine, mantling all 
The leaves, and grass, and mossy tinted stones 
AVith summer glory. Stay thy bounding step, 
My merry wanderer! let us rest awhile 
By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung 
From alder boughs and osiers o'er its breast, 
The soft red of the flowering willow-herb 
So vividly is pictured. Seems it not 
E'en melting to a more transparent glow 
In that pure glass? Oh! beautiful are streams! 
And, through all ages, human hearts have loved 
Their music, still accordant with each mood 
Of sadness or of joy. And love hath grown 
Into vain worship, which hath left its trace 
On sculptured urn and altar, gleaming still 
Beneath dim olive boughs, by many a fount 
Of Italy and Greece. But we will take 
Our lesson e'en from erring hearts, which bless'd 
The river Deities or fountain Nymphs, 
For the cool breeze, and for the freshening shade, 
And the sweet water's tune. The One supreme. 
The all-sustaining, ever-present God, 
Who dower'd the soul with immortality, 
Gave also these delights, to cheer on earth 
Its fleeting passage ; therefore let us greet 
Each wandering flower scent as a boon from Him, 
Each bird-note, quivering 'midst light summer 

leaves. 
And every rich celestial tint unnamed. 
Wherewith transpierced, the clouds of morn and 

eve 
Kindle and melt away! 

And now, in love. 
In grateful thoughts rejoicing, let us bend 
Our footsteps onward to the dell of flowers 
Around the ruin'd mansion. Thou, my boy. 
Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lorn 
But lovely spot, whose loveliness for thee 
Will wear no shadow of subduing thought — 
No colouring from the past. This way our path 
Winds through the hazels;— mark how brightly 

shoots 
The dragon-fly along the sunbeam's line. 
Crossing the leafy gloom. How full of life, 
The life of song, and breezes, and free wings. 
Is all the murmuring shade! and thine, O thine! 
Of all the brightest and the happiest here. 
My blessed child ! my gift of God ! that mak'st 
My heart o'erflow with summer! 

Hast thou twined 
Thy wreath so soon ! yet will we loiter not. 
Though here the blue-bell wave, and gorgeously 
Round the brown twisted roots of yon scathed oak 



254 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



The heath-flower spread its purple. We must 

leave 
The copse, and through yon broken avenue, 
Shadow'd by drooping walnut foliage, reach 
The ruin's glade. 

And, lo ! before us, fair, 
Yet desolate, amidst the golden day, 
It stands, that house of silence ! wedded now 
To verdant nature by the o'ermantling growth 
Of leaf and tendril, which fond woman's hands 
Once loved to train. How the rich wall-flower 

scent 
From every niche and mossy cornice floats. 
Embalming its decay ! The bee alone 
Is murmuring from its casement, whence no more 
Shall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine. 
Watching some homeward footstep. See! unbound 
From the old fretted stone-work, what thick 

wreaths 
Of jasmine, borne by waste exuberance down. 
Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, and 

load 
The air with mournful fragrance, for it speaks 
Of life gone hence ; and the faint southern breath 
Of myrtle leaves from yon forsaken porch, 
Startles the soul with sweetness ! Yet rich knots 
Of garden flowers, for wandering, and self-sown 
Through all the sunny hollow, spread around 
A flush of youth and joy, free nature's joy, 
Undimm'd by human change. How kindly here. 
With the low thyme and daisies they have blent ! 
And, under arches of wild eglantine. 
Drooping from this tall elm, how strangely seems 
The frail gumcistus o'er the turf to snow 
Its pearly flower-leaves down !— Go, happy boy! 
Rove thou at will amidst these roving sweets, 
AVhllst I, beside this fallen dial-stone. 
Under the tall moss rose-tree, long unpruned. 
Rest where thick clustering pansies weave around 
Their many tinged mosaic, 'midst dark grass, 
Bedded like jewels. 

He hath bounded on. 
Wild with delight ! — The crimson on his cheek 
Purer and richer e'en than that which lies 
In this deep-hearted rose-cup !— Bright moss-rose ! 
Though not so lorn, yet surely, gracious tree ! 
Once thou wert cherish'd ! and, by human love, 
Through many a summer duly visited 
For thy blooui-ofiferings, which, o'er festal board, 
And youthful brow, and e'en the shaded couch 
Of long secluded sickness, may have shed 
A joy, now lost. 

Yet shall there still be joy, 
Where God hath pour'd forth beauty, and the 

voice 
Of human love shall still be heard in praise 
Over his glorious gifts !— O Father, Lord ! 
The All Beneficent ! I bless thy name. 
That thou hast mantled the green earth with 

flowers, 
Linking our hearts to nature ! By the love 
Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first 
Into her deep recesses are beguiled. 
Her minster cells; dark glen and forest bower, 
Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee, 
Amidst the low religious whisperings 
And shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude. 
The spirit wakes to worship, and is made 
Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers, 
Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares. 
Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain 

streams. 
That sing of Thee ! back to free childhood's heart, 
Fresh with the dews of tenderness! — Thou bidd'st 
The lilies of the field with placid smile 
Reprove man's feverish strivings, and infuse 
Through his worn soul a more unworldly life. 
With their soft holy breath. Thou hast not left 
His purer nature, with its fine desires, 
LTncared for in this universe of thine ! 
The glowing rose attests it, the beloved 
Of poet hearts, touch'd by their fervent dreams 
With spiritual light, and made a source 
Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E'en to faint age 
Thou lend'st the vernal bliss :— The old man's eye 
Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul 



Remembers youth and love, and hopefully 
Turns unto thee, who call'st earth's buried germs 
From dust to splendour ; as the mortal seed 
Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up 
To put on glory, to be girt with power. 
And fill'd with immortality. Receive 
Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons, 
And, most of all, their heavenward influences, 
O Thou that gav'st us flowers! 

Return, my boy, 
With all thy chaplets and bright bands, return ! 
See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touch'd 
And glorified the ruin ! glow-worm light 
Will twinkle on the dew-drops, ere we reach 
Our home again. Come, with thy last sweet 

prayer 
At thy bless'd mother's knee, to-night shall thanks 
Unto our Father in his Heaven arise. 
For all the gladness, all the beauty shed 
O'er one rich day of flowers ! 



EVENING SONG OF THE WEARY. 



Father of Heaven and Earth! 
I bless thee for the night, 
The soft, still night! 
The holy pause of care and mirth. 
Of sound and light! 

Now far in glade and dell. 
Flower-cup, and bud, and bell. 

Have shut around the sleeping woodlark's nest- 
The bee's long murmuring toils are done. 
And I, the o'erwearied one, 
O'erwearied and o'erwrought, 

Bless thee, O God, O Father of the oppress'd, 
With my last waking thought. 
In the still night I 

Yes, ere I sink to rest. 
By the fire's dying light. 
Thou Lord of Earth and Heaven ! 
I bless thee, who hast given 
Unto life's fainting travellers, the night, 
The soft, still, holy night ! 



HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER'S HOUSE- 
HOLD ON HIS RETURN. 

IN THE OLDEN TIME. 

Joy! the lost one is restored ! 
Sunshine comes to hearth and board. 
From the far-oflf countries old 
Of the diamond and red gold ; 
From the dusky archer bands, 
Roamers of the fiery sands ; 
From the desert winds, whose breath 
Smites with sudden silent death ; 
He hath reach'd his home again, 

Where we sing 
In thy praise a fervent strain, 

God our King! 

Mightiest ! unto Thee he turn'd. 
When the noon-day fiercest burn'd ; 
When the fountain springs were far, 
And the sounds of Arab war 
Swell'd upon the sultry blast, 
And the sandy columns past. 
Unto Thee he" cried ! and Thou, 
Merciful ! didst hear his vow! 
Therefore unto Thee again 

Joy shall sing, 
Many a sweet and thankful strain, 

God our King ! 

Thou wert with him on the main. 
And the snowy mountain-chain, 
And the rivers, dark and wide. 
Which through Indian forests glide, 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



255 



Thou didst guard liim from the wrath 
Of the lion in his path, 
And the arrows on the breeze, 
And the dropping poison-trees : 
Tlierefore from our houseliold train 

Oft shall spring 
Unto Thee a blessing strain 

God our King! 

Thou to his lone watching wife 
Hast brought back the light of life ! 
Thou hast spared Ills loving child 
Home to greet him from the wild. 
Though the sons of eastern skies 
On his cheek have set their dyes. 
Though long toils and sleepless cares 
On his brow have blanch'd the hairs. 
Yet the night of fear is flown, 
He is living and our own ! — 
Brethren ! spread his festal board, 
Hang his mantle and his sword 
With the armour on the wall 
While this long, long silent hall 
Joyfully doth hear again 

Voice and string 
Swell to Thee the exulting strain, 

God our King ! 



THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK.* 



Clasp me a little longer on the brink 

Of life, while I can feel thy dear caress ; 

And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh '. think, 

And let it mitigate thy woe's excess. 

That thou hast been to me all tenderness, 

And friend to more than human friendship just — 

Oh I by that retrospect of happiness, 

And by the hope of an immortal trust, 

God shall assuage thy pangs when I am laid in dust ! 

Cairtpbdl. 

The scene is in an English cottage. The lattice 
opens upon a landscape at sunset. 

Edgene — Teresa. 
Teresa. The fever's hue hath left thy cheek, be- 
loved ! 
Thine eyes, that make the day-spring in my heart, 
Are clear and still once more! — Wilt thou look 

forth ? 
Now, while the sunset, with low streaming light — 
The light thou lovest— hath made the elm-wood 

stems 
All burning bronze, the river molten gold ! 
Wilt thou be raised upon thy couch, to meet 
The rich air fill'd with wandering scents and 

sounds ? 
Or shall 1 lay thy dear, dear head once more 
On this true bosom, lulling thee to rest 
With our own evening hymn ? 

Eugene. Not now, dear love. 

My soul is wakeful— lingering to look forth. 
Not on the sun, but thee!— Doth the light sleep 
On the stream tenderly? and are the stems 
Of our own elm trees, by its alchemy. 
So richly changed? and is the sweet-brier scent 
Floating around ?— But I have said farewell, 
Farewell to earth, Teresa !— not to thee ; 
Nor yet to our deep love, nor yet awhile 
Unto the spirit of mine art, which flows 
Back on my soul in mastery.— One last work! 
And I will shrine my wealth of glowing thoughts. 
Clinging affections, and undying hopes, 
All, all in that memorial ! 

Teresa. O, what dream 

Is this, mine own Eugene ? — Waste thou not thus 
Thy scarce returning strength ; keep thy rich 

thoughts 
For happier days ! they will not melt away 
Like passing music from the lute — dear friend ! 
Dearest of friends! thou canst win back at will 
The glorious visions. 

* Suggested by the closing scene in the life of the painter Blake, 
which IS beautifully related by Allan Cunningham. 



Eugene. Yes ! the unseen land 

Of glorious visions hath sent forth a voice 
To call me hence.— Oh ! be thou not deceived I 
Bind to thy heart no earthly hope, Teresa ! 
I must, 7nust leave thee ! — Yet be strong, my love, 
As thou hast still been gentle. 

Teresa. O Eugene ! 

What will this dim world be to me, Eugene, 
When wanting thy bright soul, the life of all ? 
My only sunshine ! — How can 1 bear on ? 
How can we part ? We that have loved so well. 
With clasping spirits link'd so long by grief. 
By tears, l3y prayer ? 

Eugene. E'en therefore we can part, 

With an immortal trust, that such high love 
Is not of things to perish. 

Let me leave 
One record still of its ethereal flame 
Brightening through death's cold shadow. Once 

again. 
Stand with thy meek hands folded on thy breast. 
And eyes half veii'd, in thine own soul absorb'd 
As in thy watchings, e'er I sink to sleep; 
And I will give the bending flower-like grace 
Of that soft form, and the still sweetness throned 
On that pale brow, and in that quivering smile 
Of voiceless love, a life that shall outlast 
Their delicate earthly being. There ! thy head 
Bow'd down with beauty, and with tenderness, 
And lowly thought — even thus — my own Teresa! 
Oh ! the quick glancing radiance and bright bloom 
That once around thee hung, have melted now 
Into more solemn light — but holier far, 
And dearer, and yet lovelier in mine eyes. 
Than all that summer flush ! For by my couch, 
In patient and serene devotedness. 
Thou hast made those rich hues and sunny smiles 
Thine oflering unto me. Oh ! I may give 
Those pensive lips, that clear Madonna brow, 
And the sweet earnestness of that dark eye, 
Unto the canvas; — I may catch the flow 
Of all those drooping locks, and glorify 
With a soft halo what is imaged thus — 
But how mucli rests unbreathed! my faithful one ! 
What thou hast been to me ! This bitter world. 
This cold unanswering world, that hath no voice 
To greet the gentle spirit, that drives back 
All birds of Eden, which would sojourn here 
A little while— how have I turn'd away 
From its keen soulless air, and in thy heart, 
Found ever the sweet fountain of response, 
To quench my thirst for home ! 

The dear work grows 
Beneath my hand, — the last! 

Teresa, {falling on his neck in tears.) 

Eugene, Eugene ! 
Break not my heart with thine excess of love ! — 
Oh ! must I lose thee— thou that hast been still 
The tenderest — best — 

Eugene. Weep, weep not thus, beloved! 

Let my true heart o'er thine retain its power 
Of soothing to the last !— Mine own Teresa ! 
Take strength from strong affection ! — Let our 

souls. 
Ere this brief parting, mingle in one strain 
Of deep, full thanksgiving, for God's rich boon— 
Our perfect love ! — Oh ! blessed have we been 
In that high gift ! Thousands o'er earth may pass 
With hearts unfreshen'd by the heavenly dew. 
Which hath kept ours from withering. — Kneel, true 

wife ! 
And lay thy hands in mine. — 

[She kneels beside the couch; he prays, 
O, thus receive 
Thy children's thanks. Creator ! for the love 
Which thou hast granted, through all earthly woes. 
To spread heaven's peace around them ; which 

hath bound 
Their spirits to each other and to thee. 
With links whereon unkindness ne'er hath 

breathed. 
Nor wandering thought. We thank thee, gracious 

God! 
For all its treasured memories ! tender cares. 
Fond words, bright, bright sustaining looks usi- 

changed 



256 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Through tears and joy. O Father ! most of all 
We thank, we bless Thee, for the priceless trust. 
Through Thy redeeming Son vouchsafed, to those 
That love in Thee, of union, in Thy sight, 
And in Tliy heavens, immortal !— Hear our prayer I 
Take home our fond affections, purified 
To spirit-radiance from all earthly stain ; 
Exalted, solemnized, made fit to dwell. 
Father! where all things that are lovely meet, 
And all things that are pure— for evermore, 
With Thee and Thine ! 



A PRAYER OF AFFECTION. 



Blessings, O Father, shower ! 
Father of mercies ! round his precious head ! 
On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour, 
And the pure visions of his midnight bed, 

Blessings be shed ! 

Father ! I pray Thee not 
For earthly treasure to that most beloved. 
Fame, fortune, power ; — oh ! be his spirit proved 
By these, or by their absence, at Thy will ! 
But let Thy peace be wedded to his lot. 
Guarding his inner life from touch of ill, 

With its dove-pinion still ! 

Let such a sense of Thee, 
Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love, 
His bosom guest inalienably be, 

That vvheresoe'er he move, 

A heavenly light serene 

Upon his heart and mien 
May sit undimm'd ! a gladness rest his own. 
Unspeakable, and to the world unknown ! 
Such as from childhood's morning land of dreams, 

Remember'd faintly, gleams. 
Faintly remember'd, and too swiftly flown I 

So let him walk with Thee, 

Made by Thy spirit free ; 
And when Thou call'st him from his mortal place. 
To his last hour be still that sweetness given, 
That joyful trust ! and brightly let him part. 
With lamp clear burning, and unlingcring heart. 

Mature to meet in heaven 

His Saviour's face! 



MOTHER'S LITANY BY THE SICK-BED 
OF A CHILD. 



Saviour that of woman born. 
Mother-sorrow didst not scorn. 
Thou, with whose last anguish strove 
One dear thought of earthly love ; 

Hear and aid ! 

Low he lies, my precious child. 
With his spirit wandering wild 
From its gladsome tasks and play. 
And its bright thoughts far away : — 
Saviour, aid! 

Pain sits heavy on his brow. 
E'en though slumber seal it now ; 
Bound his lip is quivering strife. 
In his hand unquiet life ; 

Aid, oh! aid.. 

Saviour! loose the burning chain 
From his fever'd heart and brain. 
Give, oh I give his young soul back 
Into its own cloudless track ! 

Hear and aid ! 

Thou that said'st, " awake, arise .'" 
E'en when death had quench'd the eyes, 
In this hour of grief's deep sighing. 
When o'erwearied hope is dying I 

Hear and aid I 



Yet, oh ! make him thine, all thine. 
Saviour I whether Death's or mine ! 
Yet, oh I pour on human love, 
Strength, trust, patience, from above ! 
Hear and aid ! 



NIGHT HYMN AT SEA. 

THE \VORDS WRITTEN FOR A MELODY BY FELTON. 



Night sinks on the wave. 

Hollow gusts are sighing, 
Sea-birds to their cave 

Through the gloom are flying. 
Oh I should storms come sweeping, 
Thou, in Heaven unsleeping, 
O'er thy children vigil keeping. 
Hear, hear, and save ! 

Stars look o'er the sea. 
Few, and sad, and shrouded! 

Faith our light must be. 
When all else is clouded. 

Thou, whose voice came thrilling. 

Wind and billow stilling. 

Speak once more ! our prayer fulfiUing- 
Power dwells with Thee ! 



FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE. 

A SERIES OF SONNETS. 



Your tents are desolate ; your stately steps, 
Of all their choral dances, have not left 
One trace beside the fountains ; your full cup 
Of gladness and of trembling, each alitte 
Is broken : yet, amidst undying things, 
The mind still keeps your loveliness, and still 
All the fresh glories of the early world 
Hang round you in the spirit's pictured halls, 
Never to change ! 



INVOCATION 

As the tired voyager on stormy seas 

Invokes the coming of bright birds from shore, 
To waft him tidings with the gentler breeze, 

Of dim sweet woods that hear no billows' roar; 

So from the depth of days, when earth yet wore 
Her solemn beauty and primeval dew, 

I call you, gracious Forms! Oh ! come, restore 
Awhile that holy freshness, and renew 
Life's morning dreams. Come with the voice, the 
lyre. 

Daughters of Judah! with the timbrel rise! 

Ye of the dark prophetic eastern eyes, 
Imperial in their visionary fire; 
Oh ! steep ray soul in that old glorious time. 
When God's own whisper shook the cedars of your 
clime ! 

IL 

INVOCATION CONTINUED. 

And come, ye faithful! round Messiah seen. 
With a soft harmony of tears and light 

Streaming through all your spiritual mien. 
As in calm clouds of pearly stillness bright, 
Showers weave with sunshine, and transpierce 
their slight 

Ethereal cradle. — From your heart subdued 
All haughty dreams of power had wing'd their 
flight, 

And left high place for martyr fortitude. 

True faith, long sufiering love.— Come to me, come ! 
And, as the seas beneath your master's tread 
Fell into crystal smoothness, round him spread 

Like the clear pavement of his heavenly home ; 
So in your presence, let the soul's great deep 
Sink to the gentleness of infant sleep. 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



257 



III. 

THE SONG OP MIRIAM. 

A song for Israel's God! — Spear, crest, and helm. 

Lay by the billows of the old Red Sea, 
When Miriam's voice o'er that sepulchral realm 

Sent on the blast a hymn of jubilee; 
With her lit eye, and long hair floating free. 

Queen-like she stood, and glorious was the strain. 
E'en as instinct with the tempestuous glee 

Of the dark waters, tossing o'er the slain. 
A song for God's own victory ! — O, thy lays, 

Bright Poesy ! were holy in their birth :— 
How hath it died, thy seraph note of praise, 

In the bewildering melodies of earth ! 
Return from troubling bitter founts— return, 
Back to the life-springs of thy native urn ! 



IV. 



The plume^like swaying of the auburn corn, 
By soft winds to a dreamy motion fann'd. 

Still brings me back thine image — Oh! forlorn, 
Yet not forsaken, Ruth! — I see thee stand 
Lone, 'midst the gladness of the harvest band — 

Lone as a wood-bird on the ocean's foam, 
Fall'n in its weariness. Thy father-land 

Smiles far away! yet to the sense of home, 
That finest, purest, which can recognize 
Home in affection's glance, for ever true 

Beats thy calm heart ; and if thy gentle eyes 
Gleam tremulous through tears, 'tis not to rue 

Those words, immortal in their deep Love's tone, 

"Th7j people and thy God shall be mine own!" 

V. 

THE VIGIL OF RIZPAH. 

"And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, 
and spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning 
of harvest until water dropped upon them out of hea- 
ven; and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on 
them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night." — 2 
Sam. xsi. 10. 
Who watches on the mountain with the dead. 

Alone before' the awfulness of night ? — 

A seer awaiting the deep spirit's might ? 
A warrior guarding some dark pass of dread? 
No, a lorn woman !— On her drooping head. 

Once proudly graceful, heavy beats the rain ; 

She recks not — living for the unburied slain. 
Only to scare the vulture from their bed. 
So, night by night, her vigil hath she kept 
With the pale stars, and with the dews hath 
wept ; — 

Oh! surely some bright Presence from above 
On those wild rocks the lonely one must aid ! — 
E'en so ; a strengthener through all storm and 
shade, 

Th' unconquerable Angel, mightiest Love! 

VI. 

THE REPLY OP THE SHUNAMITE WOMAN. 

"And she answered, I dwell among mine own people." 

—2 Kiicgs, iv. 13. 

" I dwell among mine own,"— Oh! happy thou ! 

Not for the sunny clusters of the vine. 
Nor for the olives on the mountain's brow ; 
Nor the flocks wandering by the flowery line 
Of streams, that make the green land where 
they shine 
Laugh to the light of waters— not for these, 
Northe soft shadow of ancestral trees. 

Whose kindly whisper floats o'er thee and thine— 
Oh! not for these I call thee richly blest. 
But for the meekness of thy woman's breast, 

Where that sweet depth of still contentment 
lies; 
And for thy holy household love, which clings 
Unto all ancient and familiar things. 
Weaving from each some link for home's dear 
charities. 

33 



vn. 

THE ANNUNCIATION. 

Lowliest of women, and most glorified I 
In thy still beauty sitting calm and lone, 

A brightness round thee grew — and by thy side 
Kindling the air, a form ethereal shone. 
Solemn, yet breathing gladness.— From her 
throne 

A queen had risen with more imperial eye, 

A stately prophetess of victory 
From her proud lyre had struck a tempest's tone, 

For such high tidings as to thee were brought. 
Chosen of Heaven! that hour:— but thou, O 
thou ! 

E'en as a flower with gracious rains o'erfraught. 
Thy virgin head beneath its crown didst boV, 

And take to thy meek breast th' all holy word. 

And own thyself the handmaid of the Lord. 

vin. 

THE SONG OF THE VIRGIN. 

Yet as a sun-burst flushing mountain snow, 

Fell the celestial touch of fire ere long 
On the pale stillness of thy thoughtful brow. 

And thy calm spirit lighten'd into song. 

Unconsciously perchance, yet free and strong 
Flow'd the majestic joy of tuneful words, 

Which living harps the quires of Heaven among 
Might well have link'd with their divinest chords. 
Full many a strain, borne far on glory's blast. 
Shall leave, where once its haughty music pass'd. 

No more to memory than a reed's faint sigh ; 
While thine, O childlike virgin ! through all time 
Shall send its fervent breath o'er every clime, 

Being of God, and therefore not to die. 

IX. 

THE PENITENT ANOINTING CHRIST'S FEET. 

There was a mournfulness in angel ej-es. 

That saw thee, woman! bright in this world's 
train, 
Moving to pleasure's airy melodies, 

Thyself the idol of the enchanted strain. 

But from thy beauty's garland, brief and vain, 
When one by one the rose-leaves had been torn. 

When thy heart's core had quiver'd to the pain 
Through every life-nerve sent by arrowy scorn ; 
When thou didst kneel to pour sweet odours forth 

On the Redeemer's feet, with many a' sigh. 
And showering tear-drop, of yet richer worth 

Than all those costly balms of Araby ; 
Then was there joy, a song of joy in Heaven, 
For thee, the child won back, the penitent for- 
given ! 

X. 

MARY AT THE FEET OF CHRIST. 

Oh ! blest beyond all daughters of the earth ! 

What were the Orient's thrones to that low seat, 
Where thy hush'd spirit drew celestial birth 1 

Mary ! meek listener at the Saviour's feet ! 

No feverish cares to that divine retreat 
Thy woman's heart of silent worship brought, 

But a fresh childhood, heavenly truth to meet, 
With love, and wonder, and submissive thought. 
Oh ! for the holy quiet of thy breast, 

'Midst the vvorld's eager tones and footsteps 
flying! 

Thou, whose calm soul was like a well-spring, 
lying 
So deep and still in its transparent rest, 
That e'en when noontide burns upon the hills. 
Some one bright solemn star all its lone mirror 
fills. 

XL 

THE SISTERS OF BETHANY AFTER THE DEATH OF 
LAZARDS. 

One grief, one faith, O sisters of the dead ! 

Was in your bosoms — thou, whose steps, made 
fleet 
By keen hope fluttering in the heart which bled. 

Bore tliee, as wings, the Lord of Life to greet; 



258 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



And thou, that duteous in thy still retreat 
Didst wait his summons — then with reverent love 

Fall weeping at the blest Deliverer's feet, 
Whom e'en to heavenly tears thy woe could move, 
And which to Him, the All Seeing and All Just 
Was loveliest, that quick zeal, or lowly trust ? 
Oh ! question not, and let no law be given 

To those unveilings of its deepest shrine. 

By the wrong spirit made in outward sign : 
Free service from the heart is all in all to Heaven. 

XII. 

THE MEMORIAL OF MARY. 

" Verily I say unto you, wheresoever this gospel shall 
be preached in the whole world, there shall also this, that 
this woman hath done, be told for a memorial of her." — 
Matthew, xxvi. 13. — See also John, xii. 3. 

Thou hast thy record in the monarch's hall ; 

And on the waters of the far mid sea ; 
And where the mighty mountain-shadows fall. 

The Alpine hamlet keeps a thought of thee : 

Where'er beneath some Oriental tree. 
The Christian traveller rests — where'er the child 

Looks upward from the English mother's knee. 
With earnest eyes in wondering reverence mild. 
There art thou known — where'er the Book of 

Light 
Bears hope and healing, there, beyond all blight, 

Is borne thy memory, and all praise above ; 
Oh ! say what deed so lifted thy sweet name, 
Mary ! to that pure silent place of fame ? 

One lowly offering of exceeding love. 

XIIL 

THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM AT THE CROSS. 

Like those pale stars of tempest hours, whose 
gleam 
Waves calm and constant on the rocking mast. 
Such by the Cross doth your bright lingering seem. 
Daughters of Zion! faithful to the last! 
Ye, through the darkness o'er the wide earth cast 
By the death-cloud within the Saviour's eye. 
E'en till away the heavenly spirit pass'd. 
Stood in the shadow of his agony. 
O blessed faith ; a guiding lamp, that hour. 
Was lit for woman's heart ; to her, whose dower 

Is all of love and suffering from her birth ; 
Still hath your act a voice — through fear, through 
strife. 
Bidding her bind each tendril of her life. 
To that which her deep soul hath proved of holiest 
worth. 

XIV. 

MARY MAGDALENE AT THE SEPULCHRE. 

Weeper! to thee how bright a morn was given 

After thy long, long vigil of despair. 
When that high voice which burial rocks had 
riven, 
Thrill'd with immortal tones the silent air ! 
Never did clarion's royal blast declare 
Such tale of victory to a breathless crowd. 

As the deep sweetness of one word could bear 
Into thy heart of hearts, O woman ! bow'd 
By strong affection's anguish ! — one low word — 
"ilfffir?/.'" — and all the triumph wrung from 
death 
Was thus reveal'd ! and thou, that so hadst err'd. 
So wept, and been forgiven, in trembling faith 
Didst cast thee down before th' all conquering 
Son, 
Awed by the mighty gift thy tears and love had 
won ! 

XV. 

MARY MAGDALENE BEARING TIDINGS OF THE 
RESURRECTION. 

Then was a task of glory all thine own, 

Nobler than e'er the still small voice assign'd 
To lips in awful music making known 

The stormy splendours of some prophet's mind. 

" Christ is arisen !" by thee, to wake mankind. 
First from the sepulchre those words were brought ! 

Thou wert to send the mighty rushing wind 
First on its way, with those high tidings fraught— 



" Christ is arisen /''—Thou, thou, the sin enthrall'd, 
Earth's outcast. Heaven's own ransom'd one, wert 
call'd 
In human hearts to give that rapture birth : 
Oh! raised from shame to brightness ! — there 

doth lie 
The tenderest meaning of His ministry, 
Whose undespairing love still own'd the spirit's 
worth. 



THE TWO MONUMENTS. 



Oh ! blest are they who live and die like " him," 
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn'd ! 



Banners hung drooping from on high 

In a dim cathedral's nave. 
Making a gorgeous canopy 

O'er a noble, noble grave ! 

And a marble warrior's form beneath, 

With helm and crest array'd. 
As on his battle bed of death, 

Lay in their crimson shade. 

Triumph yet linger'd in his eye, 

Ere by the dark night seal'd. 
And his head was pillow'd haughtily 

On standard and on shield. 

And shadowing that proud trophy pile 

With the glory of his wing. 
An eagle sat; — yet seem'd the while 

Panting through Heaven to spring. 

He sat upon a shiver'd lance. 

There by the sculptor bound; 
But in the light of his lifted glance 

Was that which scorn'd the ground. 

And a burning flood of gem like hues 
From a storied window pour'd, 

There fell, there centred, to suffuse 
The conqueror and his sword. 

A flood of hues ! — but one rich dye 

O'er all supremely spread. 
With a purple robe of royalty 

Mantling the mighty dead. 

Meet was that robe for him whose name 

Was a trumpet note in war. 
His pathway still the march of fame, 

His eye the battle star. 

But faintly, tenderly was thrown 
From the colour'd light one ray. 

Where a low and pale memorial stone 
By the couch of glory lay. 

Few were the fond words chisell'd there, 

Mourning for parted worth; 
But the very heart of love and prayer 

Had given their sweetness forth. 

They spoke of one whose life had been 

As a hidden streamlet's course, 
Bearing on health and joy unseen, 

From its clear mountain source: 

Whose young pure memory, lying deep 
'Midst rock, and wood, and hill. 

Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,* 
A soft light meek and still ; 

Whose gentle voice, too early call'd 

Unto Music's land away. 
Had won for God the earth's enthrall'd. 

By words of silvery sway. 

These were his victories — yet enroll'd 

In no high song of fame. 
The pastor of the mountain-fold 

Left but to Heaven his name. 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



259 



To Heaven and to the peasant's Iieartli, 

A blessed household sound — 
And finding lowly love on earth, 

Enough, enough, he found ! 

Bright and more bright before me gleam'd 

That sainted image still ; 
Till one sweet moonlight memory seem'd 

The regal fane to fill. 

Oh! how my silent spirit turn'd 
From those proud trophies nigh ; 

How my full heart within me burn'd 
Like Him to live and die ! 



THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 



Forget them not ! though now their name 

Be but a mournful sound, 
Though by the hearth its utterance claim 

A stillness round: 

Though for their sake this earth no more 

As it hath been, may be, 
And shadows, never mark'd before. 

Brood o'er each tree : 

And though their image dim the sky, 

Yet, yet, forget them not! 
Nor, where their love and life went by, 

Forsake the spot ! 

They have a breathing influence there, 
A charm not elsewhere found; 

Sad — yet it sanctifies the air. 
The stream, the ground. 

Then, though the wind an alter'd tone 
Through the young foliage bear. 

Though every flower, of something gone, 
A tinge may wear : 

Oh, fly it not ! — no fruitless grief 
Thus in their presence felt, 

A record links to every leaf. 
There, where they dwelt. 

Still trace the path which knew their tread. 
Still tend their garden bovver. 

Still commune with the holy dead, 
In each lone hour. 

The hohj dead!— oh! blest we are, 

That we may call them so, 
And to their image look afar. 

Through all our woe ! 

Blest that the things they loved on earth 

As relics we may hold, 
That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth 

By springs untold ! 

Blest, that a deep and chastening power 
Thus o'er our souls is given, 

If but to bird, or song, or flower, 
Yet, all for Heaven. 



ANGEL VISITS. 



No more of talk where God or angel guest 
With man, as with his friend, familiar used 
To sit indulgent, and with him partake 
Rural repast. 

Milton, 

Are ye for ever to your skies departed ? 

Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more? 
Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted 

Through Eden's fresh and flowering shades of 
yore ? 
Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot. 
And ye— our faded earth beholds you not I 



Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken, 
Man wander'd from his Paradise away ; 

Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken. 
Came down, high guests ! in many a later day, 

And with the Patriarchs, under vine or oak, 

'Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke. 

From you, the veil of midnight-darkness rending, 
Came the rich mysteries to the Sleeper's eye, 

That saw your hosts ascending and descending 
On those bright steps between the earth and sky; 

Trembling lie wokg, and bow'd o'er glory's trace. 

And worshipp'd, awe-struck, in that fearful place. 

By Chebar's* brook ye pass'd, such radiance wear- 
ing 

As mortal vision might but ill endure ; 
Along the stream the living chariot bearing, 

With its high crystal arch, intensely pure! 
And the dread rushing of your wings that hour, 
Was like the noise of waters in their power. 

But in the Olive-mount, by night appearing, 
'Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was 
done ! 

Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering. 
Fraught with the breath of God, to aid his Son? — 

Haply of those that, on the moon-lit plains. 

Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains. 

Yet one more task was yours! your heavenly 
dwelling 
Ye left, and by th' unseal'd sepulchral stone, 
In glorious raiment, sat; the weepers telling. 
That Be they sought had triumph'd, and was 
gone ! 
Now have ye left us for the brighter shore. 
Your presence lights the lonely groves no more. 

But may ye not. unseen, around us hover. 
With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet. 

Though the fresh glory of those days be over, 
When, 'midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps 
met ? 

Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high. 

When love, by strength, o'ermasters agony ? 

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining. 
Yields up life's treasurfes unto Him who gave? 

When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning. 
Lead on the march of death, serenely brave ? 

Dreams ! — but a deeper thought our souls may fill — 

One, One is near — a Spirit holier still! 



A PENITENT'S RETURN. 



Can guilt or misery ever enter here ? 
Ah 1 no, the spirit of domestic peace. 
Though cahn and gentle as Ihe brooding dove 
And ever murmuring forth a quiet song. 
Guards, powerful as the sword of Cherubim, 
The Iiallow'd Porch. She hath a heavenly smile. 
That sinks into the sullen soul of vice, 
And wins him o'er to virtue. 

IVilson. 

My father's house once more. 
In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around. 
Something amidst the dewy calm profound, 

Broods, never mark'd before ! 

Is it the brooding night. 
Is it the shivery creeping on the air, 
That makes the home, so tranquil and so fair, 

O'erwhehning to my sight ? 

All solemnized it seems, 
And still, and darken'd in each time-worn hue, 
Since the rich clustering roses met my view. 

As now, by starry gleams. 



^ Ezekiel, chap. X. 



260 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



And this high elm, where last 
I stood and linger'd— where my sisters made 
Our mother's bovver — I deem'd not that it cast 

So far and dark a shade 1 

How spirit-like a tone 
Sighs through yon tree ! My father's place was 

there 
At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hair! 

Now those gray locks are gone ! 

My soul grows faint with fear; 
Even as if angel steps had raark'd the sod. 
I tremble where I move— the voice of God 

Is in ithe foliage here 1 

Is it indeed the night 
That makes my home so awful ? Faithless 

hearted ! 
'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed 

The inborn gladd'ning light ! 

No outward thing is changed ; 
Only the joy of purity is fled, 
And, long from nature's melodies estranged. 

Thou hear'st their tones with dread. 

Therefore, the calm abode. 
By thy dark spirit, is o'erhur* with shade : 
And, therefore, in the leaves the voice of God 

Makes thy sick heart afraid ! 

The nlgni-Rowers round that door, 
Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air ; 
Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more 

To pass, and rest thee there. 

And must I turn away ? — 
Hark, hark ! — it is my mother's voice I hear — 
Sadder than once it seem'd — yet soft and clear — 

Doth she not seem to pray ? 

My name ! — I caught the sound ! 
Oh ! blessed tone of love — the deep, the mild — 
Mother, my mother ! Now receive thy child. 

Take back the lost and found ! 



A THOUGHT OF PARADISE. 

We receive but what we give, 
And in our life alone does nature live ; 
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud ! 
And would we aught behold of higher worth; 
Than that inanimate cold world allow'd 
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd ; 
Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth 
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud, 

Enveloping the earth — 
And from the soul itself must there be sent 
A sweet and potent voice of its own birth, 
Of all sweet sounds the life and element. 

Coleridge. 



Green spot of holy ground ! 

If thou couldst yet be found. 
Far in deep woods, with all thy starry flowers ; 

If not one sullying breath 

Of time, or change, or death. 
Had touch'd the vernal glory of thy bowers ; 

Might our tired pilgrim-feet, 

Worn by the desert's heat. 
On the bright freshness of thy turf repose? 

Might our eyes wander there 

Through heaven's transparent air. 
And rest on colours of the immortal rose ? 

Say, would thy balmy skies 

And fountain-melodies 
Our heritage of lost delight restore ? 

Could thy soft honey-dews 

Through all our veins diffuse 
The early, cliild-like trustful sleep once more ? 



And might we, in the shade 

By thy tall cedars made, 
With angel voices high communion hold? 

Would their sweet solemn tone 

Give back the music gone. 
Our Being's harmony, so jarr'd of old? 

Oh I no — thy sunny hours 

Might come with blossom showers. 
All thy young leaves to spirit lyres might thrill ; 

But we — should we not bring 

Into thy realms of spring 
The shadows of our souls to haunt us still? 

What could t/i.y flowers and airs 

Do for our earth-born cares? . 
Would the world's chain melt off' and leave us free? 

No! — past each living stream, 

Still would some fever dream 
Track the lorn wanderers, meet no more for thee 1 

Should we not shrink with fear. 

If angel steps were near. 
Feeling our burden'd souls vs'ithin us die? 

How might our passions brook 

The still and searching look. 
The star-like glance of seraph purity? 

Thy golden-fruited grove 

Was not for pining love; 
Vain sadness would hut dim thy crystal skies! 

Oh ! Thou wert but a part 

Of what man's exiled heart 
Hath lost— the dower of inborn Paradise I 



LET US DEPART. 



It is mentioned by Josephua, that, a short time previ- 
ously to the destruction of .Terusalem by the Romans, 
the priests, going by night into the inner court of the 
temple to perform their sacred ministrations at the feast 
of Pentecost, felt a quaking, and heard a rushing noise, 
and, after that, a sound as of a great multitude saying, 
" Let us depart hence." 

Night hung on Salem's towers. 
And a brooding hush profound 

Lay where the Roman eagle shone. 
High o'er the tents around, 

The tents that rose by thousands. 
In the moonlight glimmering pale; 

Like white waves of a frozen sea, 
Filling an Alpine vale. 

And the temple's massy shadow 
Fell broad, and darkj and still. 

In peace, as if the Holy One 
Yet watch'd his chosen hill. 

But a fearful sound was heard 
In that old fane's deepest heart. 

As if mighty wings rush'd by. 
And a dread voice raised the cry, 
" Let us depart!" 

Within the fated city 
E'en then fierce discord raved. 

Though o'er night's heaven the comet sword 
Its vengeful token waved. 

There were shouts of kindred warfare 
Through the dark streets ringing high. 

Though every sign was full which told 
Of the bloody vintage nigh. 

Though the wild red spears and arrows 

Of many a meteor host. 
Went flashing o'er the holy stars. 

In the sky now seen, now lost. 

And that fearful sound was heard 
In the Temple's deepest heart. 

As if mighty wings rush'd by. 
And a voice cried mournfully, 
" Let us depart !" 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



261 



But within the fated city- 
There was revelry tliat night; 

The wine-cup and the timbrel note, 
And the blaze of banquet light. 

The footsteps of the dancer 
Went bounding through the hall, 

And the music of the dulcimer 
Summou'd to festival. 

While the clash of brother weapons 

Made lightning in the air, 
And the dying at the palace gates 
• Lay down in their despair. 

And that fearful sound was heard 
At the Temple's thrilling heart, 

As if mighty wings rush'd by, 
And a dread voice raised the cry, 
"iei us depart!^' 



ON A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING 
THE CROSS. 

PAINTED BY VELASQUEZ.* 



By the dark stillness brooding in the sky, 
Holiest of sufferers ! round thy path of woe, 

And by the weight of mortal agony 
Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek 
brow. 

My heart was awed : the burden of thy pain 

Sank on me with a mystery and a chain. 

I look'd once more, and, as the virtue shed 
Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray 

Of victory from thy mien ! and round thy head, 
The halo, melting spirit-like away, 

Seem'd of the very soul's bright rising horn, 

To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn. 

And upwards, through transparent darkness 

gleaming. 

Gazed, in mute reverence, woman's earnest eye. 

Lit. as a vase whence inward light is streaming. 

With quenchless faith, and deep love's fervency ; 

Gathering, like incense round some dim-veil'd 

shrine. 
About the Form, so mournfully divine ! 

Oh ! let thine image, as e'en then it rose. 
Live in my soul for ever, calm and clear, 

Making itself a temple of repose. 
Beyond the breath of human hope or fear ! 

A holy place, where through all storms may lie 

One living beam of day-spring from on high. 



COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT. 



Could we but keep our spirits to that height. 
We might be happy j but this clay will siiik 
Its spark immortal. 

Byron, 



Return, my thoughts, come home! 
Ye wild and wing'd! what do ye o'er the deep? 
And wherefore thus th' abyss of time o'ersweep. 

As birds the ocean foam ? 

Swifter than shooting star. 
Swifter than glances of the northern light, 
Upspringing through the purple heaven of night. 

Hath been your course afar ! 

Through the bright battle-clime. 
Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian 

streams. 
And reeds are whispering of heroic theme. 

By temples of old time : 



Through the north's ancient halls. 
Where banners thriU'd of yore, where harp-strings 

rung. 
But grass waves now o'er those that fought and 
sung — 
Hearth-light hath left their walls ! 

Through forests old and dim, 
Where o'er the leaves dread magic seems to 

brood. 
And sometimes on the haunted solitude 

Rises the pilgrim's hymn : 

Or where some fountain lies. 
With lotus-cups through orient spice-woods gleam- 
ing ! 
There have ye bden, ye wanderers ! idly dreaming 

Of man's lost paradise I 

Return, my thoughts, return! 
Cares wait your presence in life's daily track. 
And voices, not of music, call you back — 

Harsh voices, cold and stern ! 

Oh ! no, return ye not ! 
Still farther, loftier, let your soarings be! 
Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright 
and free 

O'er many a haunted spot. 

Go, seek the martyr's grave, 
'Midst the old mountains, and the deserts vast; 
Or, through the ruin'd cities of the past. 

Follow the wise and brave ! 

Go, visit cell and shrine ! 
Where woman hath endured !— through wrong, 

through scorn, 
Uncheer'd by fame, yet silently upborne 

By promptings more divine ! 

Go, shoot the gulf of death! 
Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind. 
Where the heart's boundless love its rest may find, 

Where the storm sends no breath ! 

Higher, and yet more high ! 
Shake off the cumbering chain which earth would 

lay 
On your victorious wings — mount, mount!— Your 
way 
Is through eternity ! 



* This picture is in the possession of the Viscount llaiberton, 
Merrion Square, Dublin. 



SONNETS, 

DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL. 



THE SACRED HARP. 

How shall the Harp of poesy regain 
That old victorious tone of prophet-years, 
A spell divine o'er guilt's perturbing fears. 

And all the hovering shadows of the brain? 

Dark evil wings took flight before the strain, 
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall. 
Sank on the soul :— Oh! who may now recall 

The miahty music's consecrated reign ?— 

Spirit of God! whose glory once o'erhung, 
A throne, the Ark's dread cherubim between. 
So let thy presence brood, though uow unseen, 

O'er those two powers by whom the harp is 
strung — 

Feeling and Thought!— till the rekindled chords 

Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words 1 

II. 

TO A FAMILY BIBLE. 

What household thoughts around thee, as their 

shrine. 
Cling reverently!— of anxious looks beguiled 
My mother's eyes, upon thy page divine, 
1 Each day were bent;— her accents, gravely mild, 



262 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Breathed out thy lore : whilst I, a dreamy child, 
Wander'd on breeze-like fancies oft away, 
To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild. 
Some fresh discover'd nook for woodland play, 
Some secret nest: — yet would the solemn Word 
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard. 

Fall on my waken'd spirit, there to be 
A seed not lost ; — for which, in darker years, 
O Book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears, 

Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee ! 

III. 

REPOSE OP A HOLY FAMILY. 

From an Old Italian Picture. 

Under a palm tree, by the green old Nile, 

LuU'd on his mother's breast, the fair Child lies. 
With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile. 

Brooding above the slumber of his eyes. 
While, through the stillness of the burning skies, 

Lo ! the dread works of Egypt's buried kings, 
Temple and pyramid, beyond him rise. 

Regal and still as everlasting things ! — 
Vain pomps I from Him, with that pure flowery 
cheek, 

Soft shadow'd by his mother's drooping head, 
A new-born Spirit, mighty, and yet meek, 

O'er the whole world like vernal air shall spread ! 
And bid all earthly Grandeurs cast the crown, 
Before the suffering and the lowly, down. 



IV. 

PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST WITH FLOWERS. 

All the bright hues from eastern garlands glowing, 
Round the young Child luxuriantly are spread ; 
Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing 
In adoration, o'er his cradle shed. 
Roses, deep-fill'd with rich midsummer's red, 
Circle his hands; but, in his grave sweet eye, 
Thought seems e'en now to wake, and prophecy 
Of ruder coronals for that meek head. 
And thus it was ! a diadem of thorn 

Earth gave to Him who mantled her with flow- 
ers, 

To him who pour'd forth blessings in soft showers 
O'er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn ! 
And wc repine, for whom that cup He took. 
O'er blooms that inock'd our hope, o'er idols that 
forsook ! 

V. 

ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF CHRIST. 

An Ecce Homo, by Leonardo da Vinci. 

I met that image on a mirthful day 

Of youth ; and, sinking with a still'd surprise, 

The pride of life, before those holy eyes. 
In my quick heart died thoughtfully away, 
Abash'd to mute confession of a sway. 

Awful, though meek ; and now, that from the 
strings 

Of my soul's lyre, the tempest's mighty wings 
Have struck forth tones which then awaken'd lay ; 
Now, that around the deep life of my mind. 
Affections, deathless as itself, have twined, 

Oft does the pale bright vision still float by; 
But more divinely sweet, and speaking 7)07d 
Of One whose pity, throned on that sad brow, 

Sounded all depths of love, grief, death, huma- 
nity ! 

VI. 

THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLEST. 

Happy were they, the mothers, in whose sight 
Ye grew, fair children ! hallow'd from that hour 
By your Lord's blessing! surely thence a shower 

Of heavenly beauty, a transmitted light 

Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright. 
Through all the after years, which saw ye move 

Lowly, yet still majestic, in the might. 
The conscious glory of the Saviour's love ! 



And honour'd be all childhood, for the sake 
Of that high love ! Let reverential care 

Watch to behold the immortal spirit wake, 
And shield its first bloom from unholy air; 

Owning, in each young suppliant glance, the sign 

Of claims upon a heritage divine. 

VIL 

MOtJNTAIN SANCTUARIES. 

" He wont up to a mountain apart to pray." 

A child 'midst ancient mountains I have stood. 
Where the wild falcons make their lordly nest 

On high. The spirit of the solitude 
Fell solemnly upon my infant breast. 

Though then I pray'd not ; but deep thoughts have 
press'd 
Into my being since it breathed that air. 

Nor could I now one moment live the guest 
Of such dread scenes, without the springs of 
prayer 

O'erflowing all my soul. No minsters rise 

Like them in pure communion with the skies, 

Vast, silent, open unto night and day ; 
So might the o'erburden'd Son of man have felt. 
When, turning where inviolate stillness dwelt. 

He sought high mountains, there apart to pray. 

VIII. 

THE LILIES OF THE FIELD. 

" Consider the lilies of the field." 

Flowers! when the Saviour's calm benignant eye 
Fell on your gentle beauty — when from you 
That heavenly lesson from all hearts he drew. 

Eternal, universal, as the sky — 

Then, in the bosom of your purity, 
A voice He set, as in a temple-shrine, 

That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by 
Unwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine. 

And though too oft its low, celestial sound. 

By the harsh notes of work-day Care is drown'd. 

And the loud steps of vain unlistening Haste, 
Yet. the great ocean hath no tone of power 
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hush'd 
hour. 

Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced ! 

IX. 

THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. 

" And behold the birds of the air." 

Ye too, the free and fearless Birds of air. 

Were charged that hour, on missionary wing, 
The same bright lesson o'er the seas to bear. 

Heaven-guided wanderers with the winds of 
spring ! 
Sing on, before the storm and after, sing ! 

And call us to your echoing woods away 
From worldly cares; and bid our spirits bring 

Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay. 
So may those blessed vernal strains renew 
Childhood, a childhood yet more pure and true 

E'en than the first, within th' awaken'd mind ; 
While sweetly, joyously, they tell of life, 
That knows no doubts, no questionings, no strife, 

But hangs upon its God, unconsciously resign'd. 

X. 

THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW'S SON. 

" And he that vins dead sat up and began to speak." 

He that was dead rose up and spoke— Be spoke ! 

Was it of that majestic world unknown ? 
Those words, which first the bier's dread silence 
broke. 

Came they with revelation in each tone ? 
Were the far cities of the nations gone. 

The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep, 
For man uncurtain'd by that spirit lone. 

Back from their portal summon'd o'er the deep? 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



263 



Be hush'd, my soul ! the veil of darkness lay 
Still drawn: — thy Lord call'd back the voice de- 
parted, 
To spread his truth, to comfort his weak-hearted, 
Not to reveal the mysteries of its way. 
Oh! take that lesson home in silent faith, 
Put on suhmissive strength to meet, not question 
death ! 

XI. 

THE OLIVE TREE. 

The Palm — the Vine — the Cedar — each hath 

power 
To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by, 
And each quick glistening of the Laurel bower 
Wafts Grecian images o'er fancy's eye. 
But thou, pale Olive I — in thtj: brandies lie 
Far deeper spells than prophet-grove of old 
Might e'er enshrine :— I could not hear thee sigh 
To the wind's faintest whisper, nor behold 
One shiver of thy leaves' dirh silvery green, 
Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene 
When, in the garden, the Redeemer pray'd— 
When pale stars look'd upon his fainting head, 
And angels, ministering in silent dread, 
Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling shade. 

xri. 

THE DARKNESS OP THE CRtJCIFIXION. 

On Judah's hills a weight of darkness hung, 
Felt shudderingly at noon :— the land had driven 
A Guest divine back to the gates of Heaven, 
A life, whence all pure founts of healing sprung. 
All grace, all truth :— and, when to anguish wrung. 
From the sharp cross th' enlightening spirit fled. 
O'er the forsaken earth a pall of dread 
By the great shadow of that death was flung. 
O Saviour! O Atoner ! thou that fain 
Wouldst make thy temple in each human breast, 
Leave not such darkness in my soul to reign. 
Ne'er mav thy presence from its depths depart. 
Chased thence by guilt !— Oh ! turn not thou away, 
The bright and morning star, my guide to perfect 
day! 

XIII. 

PLACES OF WORSHIP. 

"God is a Spirit." 

Spirit ! whose life-sustaining presence fills 
Air, ocean, central depths, by man untried, 
Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified 
All place, ail time ! The silence of the hills 
Breathes veneration : — founts and choral rills 
Of thee are murmuring: — to its inmost glade 
The living forest with thy whisper thrills, 
And there is holiness on every shade. 
Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest 
With dearer consecration those pure fanes, 
Which, sever'd from all sound of earth's unrest. 
Hear naught but suppliant or adoring strains 
Rise heavenward. — Ne'er may rock or cave possess 
Their claim on human hearts to solemn tender- 
ness. 

XIV. 

OLD CHnRCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK. 

Crowning a flowery slope, it stood alone 
In gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound, 
Caressingly, about the holy ground; 
And warbled, with a never-dying tone. 
Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone 
Seem'd, from that ivied porch, that solemn gleam 
Of tower and cross, pale quivering on the stream, 
O'er all th' ancestral woodlands to be thrown. 
And something yet more deep. The air was fraught 
With noble memories, whispering many a thought 
Of England's fathers ; loftily serene, 
They that had toil'd, watch'd, struggled, to secure. 
Within such fabrics, worship free and pure, 
Reign'd there, the o'ershadowing spirits of the 
scene. 



XV. 

A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES. 

Blessings be round it still! that gleaming fane, 
Low in its mountain-glen! old mossy trees 
Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane, 
And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze, 
The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas, 
Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone. 
There meets the voice of psalms I — yet not alone 
For memories lulling to the heart as these, 
I bless thee, 'midst tliy rocks, gray house of prayer ! 
But for their sakes who unto thee repair 
From the hill-cabins and the ocean-shore. 
Oh ! may the fisher and the mountaineer. 
Words to sustain earth's toiling children hear, 
Within thy lowly walls for evermore ! 

XVL 

LOUISE SCHEPLER. 

Louise Schepler was the faithful servant and friend of 
the pastor Oberlin. The last letter addressed by him 
to his children for their perusal after his decease, af- 
fectingly commemorates her unwearied zeal in visiting 
and instructing the children of the mountain hamlets, 
through all seasons, and in all circumstances of diffi- 
culty and danger. 

A fearless journeyer o'er the mountain snow 
Wert thou, Louise ! the sun's decaying light, 
Oft, with its latest melancholy glow, 
Redden'd thy steep wild way : the starry night 
Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle's height. 
Piercing some dark ravine: and many a dell 
Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses well. 
Thy gentle presence, which hath made them bright 
Oft in mid-storms ; oh I not with beauty's eye. 
Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning ; 
No! pilgrim of unwearying charity ! 
Thy spell was /owe— the mountain deserts turning 
To blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice. 
When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving 
voice ! 

xvn. 

TO THE SAME. 

For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind. 
Through the pine forests, by the upland rills, 
Didst roam to seek the children of the hills, 
A wild neglected flock! to seek, and find. 
And meekly win I there feeding each young mind 
With balms of heavenly eloquence : not thine. 
Daughter of Christ! but his, whose love divine, 
Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined, 
A burning light ! Oh! beautiful, in truth. 
Upon the mountains are the feet of those 
Who bear his tidings ! From thy morn of youth, 
For this were all thy jonrneyings, and the close 
Of that long path. Heaven's own bright sabbath- 
rest, 
Blust wait thee, wanderer ! on thy Saviour's breast. 



LINES 
TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL. 



Creature of air and light ! 
Emblem of that which will not fade or die! 

Wilt thou not speed thy flight. 
To chase the south wind through the glowing sky ? 

What lures thee thus to stay, 

With silence and decay, 
Fix'd on the wreck of cold mortality? 

The thoughts, once chamber'd there, 
Have gather'd up their treasures, and are goner — 

Will the dust tell thee where 
That which hath burst the prison-house is flown ? 

Rise, nursling of the day ! 

If thou would'st trace its way- 
Earth has no voice to make the secret known. 



264 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Who seeks the vanish'd bird, 
Near the deserted nest and broken shell ? 

Far thence, by us unheard, 
He sings, rejoicing in the woods to dwell; 

Thou of the sunshine born, 
- Take the bright wings of morn ! 
Thy hope springs iieavenward from yon ruin'd cell. 



THE PALMER. 



The faded palm-branch in his hand, 
Show'd pilgrim from the Holy Land. 



ScoiU 



Art thou come from the far-off land at last ? 

Thou that hast wander'd long ! 
Thou art come to a home whence the smile hath 
pass'd, 

With the merry voice of song. 

For the sunny glance and the bounding heart 

Thou wilt seek — but all are gone ; 
They are parted e'en as waters part, 

To meet in the deep alone! 

And thou— from thy lip is fled the glow, 

From thine eye the light of morn ; 
And the shades of tliought o'erhang thy brow, 

And thy cheek with life is worn. 

Say what hast thou brought from the distant shore 

For thy wasted youth to pay ? 
Hast thou treasure to win thee joys once more? 

Hast thou vassals to smooth thy way? 

"I have brought but the palm branch in my hand. 
Yet I call not my bright youth lost ! 

I have won but high thought in the Holy Land, 
Yet I count not too dear the cost. 

" I look on the leaves of the deathless tree — 

These records of my track ; 
And better than youth in its flush of glee, 

Are the memories they give me back ! 

"They speak of toil, and of high emprise, 

As in words of solemn cheer. 
They speak of lonely victories 

O'er pain, and doubt, and fear. 

" They speak of scenes which have now become 

Bright pictures in my breast ; 
Where my spirit finds a glorious home. 

And the love of my lieart can rest. 

" The colours pass not from these away, 

Like tints of shower or sun ; 
Oh ! beyond all treasures that know decay. 

Is the wealth my soul hath won ! 

"A rich light thence o'er my life's decline. 

An inborn light is cast ; 
For the sake of the palm from the holy shrine, 

I bewail not my bright days past!" 



THE WATER-LILy. 

The Water-Lilies, that are serene in the calm clear 
water, but no less serene among the black and scowling 
waves. — Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life. 

Oh! beautiful thou art. 
Thou sculpture-like and stately River-duecn ! 
Crowning the depths, as with the light serene 

Of a pure heart. 

Bright lily of the wave I 
Rising in fearless grace with every swell, 
Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave 

Dwelt in thy cell : 



Lifting alike thy head 
Of placid beauty, feminine yet free. 
Whether with foam or pictured azure spread 

The waters be. 

What is like thee, fair flower. 
The gentle and the firm ? thus bearing up 
To the blue sky that alabaster cup. 

As to the shower ? 

Oh! Love is most like thee. 
The love of woman ; quivering to the blast 
Tlu'ough every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast, 

'Midst Life's dark sea. 

And Faith— O, is not faith 
Like thee too, Lily, springing into light. 
Still buoyantly, above the billows' might, 

Through the storm's breath? 

Yes, link'd with such high thought, 
Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie! 
Till something there of its own purity 

And peace be wrought : 

Something yet more divine 
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed 
Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed, 

As from a shrine. 



THOUGHT FROM AN ITAUAN POET. 

Where shall I find, in all this fleeting earth. 
This world of changes and farewells, a friend 

That will not fail mein his love and worth. 
Tender, and firm, and faithful to the end ? 

Far hath my spirit sought a place of rest- 
Long on vain idols its devotion shed ; 

Some have forsaken whom I loved the best. 
And some deceived, and some are with the dead. 

But thou, my Saviour! thou, my liope and trust, 
Faithful art thou v/hen friends and joys depart; 

Teach me to lift these yearnings from the dust. 
And fix on thee, th' Unchanging One, my heart ! 



ELYSIUM. 



' In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but he- 
roes and persons who had either been fortunate or 
distinguished on earth ; the children, and apparently 
the slaves and lower classes, that is to say. Poverty, 
Misfortune, and Innocence, were banished to the ixt- 
fernal regions." 

Chateaubriand, Genie du Christianismc. 



Fair wert thou in the dreams 
Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers. 
And summer winds, and low-toned silvery streams 
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel-bowers! 

Where, as they pass'd, bright hours 
Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings 
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things ! 

Fair wert thou, with the light 
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast. 
From purple skies ne'er deepening into night, 
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last 

Of glory, fading fast 
Along the mountains! — but thy golden day 
Was not as those that warn us of decay. 

And ever, through thy shades, 
A swell of deep ^olian sound went by. 
From fountain-voices in their secret glades. 
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply 

To summer's breezy sigh ! 
And young leaves trembling to the wind's light 

breath 
Which ne'er had touch'd them with a hue of death ! 



HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. 



265 



And the transparent sky 
Rang as a dome, all thrilling to the strain 
Of harps that, 'midst the woods, made harmony 
Solemn and sweet ; yet troubling not the brain 

With dreams and yearnings vain. 
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth 
From the bewildering music of tlie earth. 

And who, with silent tread. 
Moved o'er the plains of waving Asphodel? 
Call'd from the dim procession of the Dead, 
Who, "midst the shadowy amaranth-bovvers might 
dwell. 

And listen to the swell 
Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale 
The spirit wandering in the immortal gale ? 

They of the sword, whose praise, 
With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went 

round ! 
They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays 
Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sound. 

And in all regions found 
Theirechoes 'midst the mountains ! — and become 
In man's deep heart as voices of his home ! 

They of the daring thought ! 
Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied — 
Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths 

had sought 
The soul's far birth-place— but without a guide! 

Sages and seers, who died. 
And left the world their high mysterious dreams. 
Born 'midst the olive-woods, by Grecian streams. 

But the most loved are they 
Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice 
In regal halls ! the shades o'erhang their way. 
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice. 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their steps ; till, silently, they die, 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 

And these— of whose abode, 
'Midst her green valleys, earth retain'd no trace, 
Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, 
A shade of sadness on some kindred face, 

A dim and vacant place 



In some sweet home ;— thou hadst no wreath for 

these. 
Thou sunny land I with all thy deathless trees I 

The peasant at his door 
Might sink to die when vintage feasts were spread. 
And songs on every wind ! From Iky bright shore 
No lovelier vision floated round his head — 

Thou wert for nobler dead I 
He heard the bounding steps which round him fell. 
And sigh'd to bid the festal Sun farewell ! 

The slave, whose very tears 
Were a forbidden»lu.\ury, and whose breast 
Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of 

years. 
As embers in a burial urn cnmpress'd ; 

He might not be thy guest ! 
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky 
Came o'er his path, and whisper'd " Liberty !" 

Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, 
Unlike a gift of nature to decay. 
Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear. 
The child at rest before the mother lay. 

E'en so to pass away. 
With its bright smile ! what wert thou 
To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer'sbrowT 

Thou hadst no home, green land! 
For the fair creature from her bosom gone. 
With life's fresh flowers just opening in its hand. 
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, 

Which, in its clear eye, shone 
Like springs first wakening! but that light was 

past — 
Where went the dew-drop swept before the blast? 

Not where thy soft winds play'd. 
Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep! 
Fade with thy bowers, thou land of visions, fade 1 
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep, 

And bade man cease to weep! 
Fade, with the amaranth-plain, the myrtle grove, 
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love ! 



umnn for ClitlUfliisotJ* 



PREFACE. 



The following very simple compositions were 
written a few years ago, exclusively for the Au- 
thor's family circle, and without the remotest idea 
of their publication. It is now her wish to render 
them more extensively, however humbly, useful. 
The Hymns were intended to associate the first 
devotional thoughts of childhood with the loveli- 
ness and solemnity diffused over the outward crea- 
tion. Should they prove acceptable, they may per- 
haps be followed by a series, of a character more 
entirely scriptural. 



H7IVINS FOR CHILDHOOD. 



INTRODUCTORY VERSES. 

Oh ! blest art thou, whose steps may rove 
Through the green paths of vale and grove, 
Or, leaving all their charms below. 
Climb the wild mountain's airy brow ; 

34 



And gaze afar o'er cultured plains. 
And cities with their stately fanes, 
And forests, that beneath thee lie, 
And ocean mingling with the sky. 

For man can show thee naught so fair, 
As Nature's varied marvels there ; 
And if thy pure and artless breast 
Can feel their grandeur, thou art blest ! 

For thee the stream in beauty flows, 
For thee the gale of summer blows. 
And, in deep glen and wood-walk free. 
Voices of joy still breathe for thee. 

But happier far, if then thy soul 
Can soar to Him who made the whole. 
If to thine eye the simplest flower 
Portray His bounty and His power. 

If, in whate'er is bright or grand. 
Thy mind can trace His viewless hand. 
If Nature's music bid thee raise 
Thy song of gratitude and praise ; 

If heaven and earth with beauty fraught. 
Lead to His throne thy raptured thought, 
If there thou lov'st His love to read. 
Then, wanderer, thou art blest indeed. 



266 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



THE RAINBOW. 



I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a to- 
ken of a covenant between me and the earth. 

Genesis ix. 13. 

Soft falls the mild, reviving shower 

From April's changeful skies, 
And rain-drops bend each trembling flower 

They tinge with richer dyes. 

Soon shall their genial influence call 

A thousand buds to day. 
Which, waiting but that baftny fall. 

In hidden beauty lay. 

E'en now full many a blossom's bell 

With fragrance fills the shade ! 
And verdure clothes each grassy dell, 

In brighter tints array'd. 

But mark ! what arch of varied hue 
From Heaven to earth is bovv'd ! 

Haste, ere it vanish, haste to view 
The Eainbow in the cloud. 

How bright its glory ! there behold 

The emerald's verdant rays. 
The topaz blends its hue of gold 

With the deep ruby's blaze. 

Yet not alone to charm thy sight 

Was given the vision fair ;— 
Gaze on that arch of colour'd light, 

And read God's mercy there. 

It tells us that the mighty deep, 

Fast by th' Eternal chain'd. 
No more o'er earth's domains shall sweep. 

Awful and unrestrain'd. 

It tells that seasons, heat and cold, 

Fix'd by his sovereign will, 
Shall, in their course, bid man behold 

Seed-time and harvest still ; 

That still the flower shall deck the field. 

When vernal zephyrs blow; 
That still the vine its fruit shall yield, 

When autumn sun-beams glow. 

Then, child of that fair earth ! which yet 
Smiles with each charm endow'd. 

Bless thou His name, wliose mercy set 
The Rainbow in the cloud ! 



THE SUN. 

The Sun comes forth ;— each mountain height 

Glows with a tinge of rosy light. 

And flowers that slumber'd through the night 

Their dewy leaves unfold; 
A flood of splendour bursts on high. 
And ocean's breast reflects a sky 

Of crimson and of gold. 

Oh ! thou art glorious, orb of day ! 
Exulting nations hail thy ray. 
Creation swells a cnoral lay. 

To welcome thy return ; 
From thee all nature draws her hues. 
Thy beams the insect's wings suffiise, 

And in the diamond burn. 

Yet must thou fade ; — when earth and heaven 
By fire and tempest shall be riven, 
Thou, from thy sphere of radiance driven, 

Oh Sun ! must fall at last ; 
Another heaven, another earth. 
Far other glory shall have birth. 

When all we see is past. 



But He, who gave the word of might, 
" Let tliere be liglit" — and there was light, 
Wiio bade thee cliase the gloom of night, 

And beam, the world to bless ; — 
For ever bright, for ever pure, 
Alone, unchanging, shall endure 

The Sun of Righteousness I 



THE RIVERS. 



Go ! trace th' unnumber'd streams o'er earth 
That wind their devious course. 

That draw from Alpine heights their birth. 
Deep vale, or cavern source. 

Some by majestic cities glide. 

Proud scenes of man's renown, 
Some lead their solitary tide. 

Where pathless forests frown. 

Some calmly roll in golden sands, 

Where Afric's deserts lie ! 
Or spread, to clothe rejoicing lands 

With rich fertility. 

Those bear the bark, whose stately sail 

Exulting seems to swell ; 
While these, scarce rippled by a gale, 

Sleep in the lonely dell. 

Yet on, alike though swift or slow 
Their various waves may sweep. 

Through cities or through shades they flow 
To tiie same boundless deep. 

Oh ! thus, whate'er our path of life. 
Through sunshine or through gloom, 

Through scenes of quiet or of strife. 
Its end is still the tomb. 

The chief, whose mighty deeds we hail, 

The monarch throned on high, 
The peasant in his native vale, 

All journey on — to die ! 

But if Thy guardian care, my God ! 

The pilgrim's course attend, 
I will not fear the dark abode. 

To which my footsteps bend. 

For thence thine all-redeeming Son, 

Who died, the world to save, 
In light, in triumph, rose, and won 

The victory from the grave ! 



THE STARS. 



The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firma- 
ment showeth his handy-work. Psalm xix. 1. 



No cloud obscures the summer sky. 
The moon in brightness walks on high. 
And, set in azure, every star 
Shines, like a gem of heaven, afar ! 

Child of the earth ! oh ! lift thy glance 
To yon bright firmament's expanse. 
The glories of its realm explore. 
And gaze, and wonder, and adore ! 

Doth it not speak to every sense 
The marvels of Omnipotence ? 
See'st thou not there th' Almighty name 
Inscribed in characters of flame ? 

Count o'er those lamps of quenchless, light, 
That sparkle through the shades of night ! 
Behold them ! — can a mortal boast 
To number that celestial host ? 



HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. 



267 



Mark well each little star, whose rays 
In distant splendour meet thy gaze ; 
Each is a world by Him sustain'd, 
Who from eternity hath reign'd. 

Each, shining not for earth alone, 
Hath suns and planets of its own. 
And beings, whose existence springs 
From Him, th' all-powerful King of kings. 

Haply, those glorious beings know 
Nor stain of guilt, nor tear of woe ! 
But raising still th' adoring voice. 
For ever in their God rejoice. 

What then art tliou, oh ! child of clay ! 
Amid creation's grandeur, say ? 
—E'en as an insect on the breeze, 
E'en as a dew-drop, lost in seas ! 

Yet fear thou not '.—the sovereign hand, 
Which spread the ocean and the land. 
And hung the rolling spheres in air, 
Hath, e'en for thee, a Father's care ! 

Be thou at peace !—th' all-seeing eye. 
Pervading earth, and air, and sky, 
The searching glance which none may flee, 
Is still, in mercy, turn'd on thee. 



THE OCEAN. 

They that go down to the sea in ships, that do busi- 
ness in great waters, these see the works of the Lord, 
and his wonders in the deep. Psalm cvii. 23, 24, 



He that in venturous barks hath been 

A wanderer on the deep, 
Can tell of many an awful scene, 

Where storms for ever sweep. 

For many a fair majestic sight 

Hath met his wandering eye. 
Beneath the streaming northern light, 

Or blaze of Indian sky. 

Go ! ask him of the whirlpool's roar. 

Whose echoing thunder peals 
Loud, as if rush'd along the shore 

An army's chariot-wheels ; 

Of icebergs, floating o'er the main. 

Or fix'd upon the coast. 
Like glittering citadel or fane, 

'Mid the bright realms of frost ; 

Of coral rocks from waves below 

In steep ascent that tower. 
And, fraught with peril, daily grow, 

Form'd by an insect's power ; 

Of sea-fires, which at dead of night 

Shine o'er the tides afar. 
And make th' expanse of ocean bright 

As heaven, with many a star. 

Oh God ! thy name they well may praise. 

Who to the deep go down, 
And trace the wonders of thy ways. 

Where rocks and billows frown. 

If glorious be that awful deep. 

No human power can bind, 
What then art Thou, who bid'st it keep 

Within its bounds confined ! 

Let heaven and earth in praise unite, 

Eternal praise to Thee, 
Whose word can rouse the tempest's might. 

Or still the raging sea ! 



THE THUNDER-STORM. 

Deep, flery clouds o'ercast the sky, 

Dead stillness reigns in air. 
There is not e'en a breeze on high. 

The gossamer to bear. 

The woods are hush'd, the waves at rest. 

The lake is dark and still, 
Reflecting on its shadowy breast. 

Each form of rock and hill. 

The lime-leaf waves not in the grove, 

No rose-tree in the bower; 
The birds have ceased their songs of love. 

Awed by the threatening hour. 

'T is noon ; — yet Nature's calm profound 

Seems as at midnight deep ; 
— But hark ! what peal of awful sound 

Breaks on creation's sleep ? 

The thunder bursts !— its rolling might 

Seems the firm hills to shake ; 
And in terrific splendour bright, 

The gather'd lightnings bi-eak. 

Yet fear not, shrink not thou, my child ! 

Though by the bolt's descent 
Were the tall cliffs in ruins piled, 

And the wide forests rent. 

Doth not thy God behold thee still. 

With all-surveying eye ? 
Doth not his power all nature fill, 

Around, beneath, on high ? 

Know, hadst thou eagle-pinions free. 

To track the realms of air. 
Thou couldst not reach a spot where He 

Would not be with thee there ! 

In the wide city's peopled towers. 

On the vast ocean's plains, 
'Midst the deep woodland's loneliest bowers. 

Alike th' Almighty reigns ! 

Then fear not, though the angry sky 
A thousand darts should cast ; — 

Why should we tremble e'en to die. 
And be with Him at last ? 



THE BIRDS. 



Are not five sparrovvs sold for two farthings, and not 
one of them is forgotten before God ■? St. Luke, xii. 6. 



Tribes of the air ! whose favour'd race 
May wander through the realms of space, 

Free guests of earth and sky; 
In form, in plumage, and in song, 
What gifts of nature mark your throng 

With bright variety ! 

Nor differ less your forms, your flight. 
Your dwellings hid from hostile sight. 

And the wild haunts ye love ; 
Birds of the gentle beak !* how dear 
Your wood-note, to the wanderer's ear. 

In shadowy vale or grove ! 

Far other scenes, remote, sublime. 
Where swain or hunter may not climb. 

The mountain-eagle seeks; 
Alone he reigns, a monarch there, 
Scarce will the chamois' footstep dare 

Ascend his Alpine peaks. 

Others there are, that make their home 
Where the white billows roar and foam. 

Around th' o'erhanging rock ; 
Fearless they skim the angry wave. 
Or, shelter'd in their sea-beat cave, 

"The tempest's fury mock. 

* The Italians call all singing-birds, Birds of the gentle beah. 



268 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Where Afric's burning realm expands, 
The ostrich liaunts the desert sands, 

Parch'd by the blaze of day ; 
The swan, where northern rivers glide 
Through the tall reeds that fringe their tide, 

Floats graceful on her way. 

Tlie condor, where the Andes tower. 
Spreads his broad wing of pride and power, 

And many a storm defies ; 
Bright in the orient realms of morn, 
All beauty's richest hues adorn 

The Bird of Paradise. 

Some, amidst India's groves of palm. 
And spicy forests breathing balm, 

Weave soft their pendent nest ; 
Some, deep in western wilds, display 
Their fairy form and plumage gay, 

In rainbow colours drest. 

Others no varied song may pour. 
May boast no eagle-plume to soar. 

No tints of light may wear; 
Yet, know, our Heavenly Father guides 
The least of these, and well provides 

For each, with tenderest care. 

Shall He not then thy guardian be? 
Will not his aid extend to thee? 

Oh! safely may'st thou rest! 
Trust in his love, and e'en should pain, 
Should sorrow tempt thee to complain. 

Know, what He wills is best ! 



THE SKY-LARK. 



The Sky -lark, when the dews of morn 
Hang tremulous on flower and thorn, 
And violets round his nest exliale 
Their fragrance on the early gale, 
To the first sunbeam spreads his wings. 
Buoyant with joy, and soars, and sings. 

He rests not on the leafy spray. 

To warble his exulting lay, 

But high above the morning cloud 

Mount's, in triumphant freedom proud. 

And swells, when nearest to the sky, 

His notes of sweetest ecstasy. 

Thus, my Creator ! thus the more 
My spirit's wing to Thee can soar. 
The more she triumphs to behold 
Thy love in all thy works unfold, 
And bids her hymns of rapture be 
Most glad, when rising most to Thee. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 



When twilight's gray and pensive hour 
Brings the low breeze, and shuts the flower, 
And bids the solitary star 
Shine in pale beauty from afar ; 

Wlien gathering shades the landscape veil, 
And pe'asants seek their village-dale. 
And mists from river-wave arise. 
And dew in every blossom lies ; 

When evening's primrose opes, to shed 
Soft fragrance round her grassy bed; 
When glow-worms in the wood-walk light 
Their lamp, to cheer the traveller's sight ; 

At that calm hour, so still, so pale. 
Awakes the lonely nightingale; 
And from a hermitage of shade 
Fills with her voice the forest-glade. 

And sweeter far that melting voice. 
Than all which through the day rejoice ; 
And still shall bard and wanderer love 
The twilight music of the grove. 



Father in Heaven ! oh ! thus, when day 
With all its cares hath pass'd away. 
And silent hours waft peace on earth. 
And hush the louder strains of mirth; 

Thus may sweet songs of praise and prayer 
To Thee my spirit's offering bear; 
Yon star, my signal, set on high, 
For vesper-hymns of piety. 

So may thy mercy and thy power 
Protect me through the midnight hour; 
And balmy sleep and visions blest 
Smile on thy servant's bed of rest. 



THE NORTHERN SPRING. 



When the soft breath of Spring goes forth 
Far o'er the mountains of the North, 
How soon those wastes of dazzling snow 
With life, and bloom, and beauty glow ! 

Then bursts the verdure of the plains, 
Then break the streams from icy chains ; 
And the glad rein-deer seeks no more 
Amidst deep snows his mossy store. 

Then the dark pine-wood's boughs are seen 
Array'd in tints of living green; 
And roses, in their brightest dyes, 
By Lapland's founts and lakes arise. 

Thus, in a moment, from the gloom 
And the cold fetters of the tomb. 
Thus shall the blest Redeemer's voice 
Call forth his servants to rejoice. 

For He, whose word is truth, hath said, 
His power to life shall wake the dead, 
And summon those he loves, on high, 
To " put on immortality !" 

Then, all its transient sufTerings o'er, 
On wings of light the soul shall soar, 
Exulting, to that blest abode. 
Where tears of sorrow never flow'd. 



PARAPHRASE OF PSALM CXLVIII. 



Praise ye the Lord. Praise ye the Lord from the hea- 
vens: praise him in the heights. 



Praise ye the Lord ! on every height 

Songs to his glory raise ! 
Ye angel-hosts, ye stars of light, 

Join in immortal praise ! 

Oh! heaven of heavens! let praise far-swelling 

From all your orbs be sent ! 
Join in the strain, ye waters, dwelling 

Above the firmament ! 

For His the word which gave you birth, 

And majesty and might; 
Praise to the Highest from the earth, 

And let the deeps unite ! 

Oh ! fire and vapour, hail and snow, 

Ye servants of His will ; 
Oh ! stormy winds, that only blow 

His mandates to fulfil ; 

Mountains and rocks, to heaven that rise ; 

Fair cedars of the wood ; 
Creatures of life, that wing the skies. 

Or track the plains for food ; 

Judges of nations; kings, whose hand 

Waves the proud sceptre high ; 
Oh ! youths and virgins of the land, 

Oh 1 age and infancy ; 



HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. 



269 



Praise ye His name, to whom alone 
All homage should be "iven ; 

Whose glory from th' eternal throne 
Spreads wide o'er earth and heaven ! 



CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

O lovely voices of the sky, 

That hymn'd the Saviour's birth ! 
Are ye not singing still on high, 
Ye that sang, " Peace on earth ?" 
To us yet speak the strains 

Wherewith, in days gone by, 
Ye bless'd the Syrian swains, 
O voices of the sky ! 

O clear and shining light, whose beams 

That hour Heaven's glory shed 
Around the palms, and o'er the streams. 
And on the Shepherds' head ; 

Be near, through life and death, 

As in that holiest night 
Of Hope, and Joy, and Faith, 
O clear and shining light ! 

O star which led to Him, whose love 
Brought down man's ransom free ; 
Where art thou ? — 'Midst the hosts above. 
May we still gaze on thee ? — 
In heaven thou art not set. 

Thy rays earth might not dim — 
Send them to guide us yet ! 
O star which led to Him ! 



CHRIST WALKING ON THE WATER. 



Fear was within the tossing bark, 
When stormy winds grew loud. 

And waves came rolling high and dark, 
And the tall mast was bow'd. 

And men stood breathless in their dread, 

And baffled in their skill — 
But One was there, who rose, and said 

To the wild sea — be still! 

And the wind ceased— it ceased !— that word 
Pass'd through the gloomy sky ; 

The troubled billows knew their Lord, 
And fell beneath His eye. 

And slumber settled on the deep, 

And silence on the blast ; 
They sank, as flowers that fold to sleep 

When sultry day is past. 

Oh ! thou, that in its wildest hour 

Didst rule the tempest's mood. 
Send thy meek spirit forth in power 

Soft on our souls to brood. 

Thou that didst bow the billow's pride 

Thy mandate to fulfil. 
Oh ! speak to passion's raging tide. 

Speak, and say, " Peace, be still .'" 



A FATHER READING THE BIBLE. 

'TwAS early Day, and sunlight stream'd 

Soft through a quiet room. 
That hush'd, hut not forsaken, seem'd. 

Still, but with naught of gloom. 
For there, serene in happy age. 

Whose hope is from above, 
A Father communed with the page 

Of Heaven's recorded love. 

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright. 

On his gray holy hair. 
And touch'd the page with tenderest light. 

As if its shrine were there ! 



But oh ! that patriarch's aspect shone 
With something lovelier far, 

A radiance all the spirit's own. 
Caught not from sun or star. 

Some word of life e'en then had met 

His calm, benignant eye. 
Some ancient promise, breathing yet 

Of Immortality : 
Some Martyr's prayer, wherein the glow 

Of quenchless faith survives : 
For every feature said— " I know 

That my Redeemer lives .'" 

And silent stood his children by. 

Hushing their very breath. 
Before the solemn sanctity 

Of thoughts o'ersweeping death. 
Silent— yet did not each young breast 

With love and reverence melt ? 
Oh ! blest be those fair girls, and blest 

That home where God is felt ! 



EPITAPH 

OVER THE GRAVE OF TWO BROTHERS, 

A CHILD AND A YOUTH. 

Thod, that canst gaze upon thine own fair boy, 
And hear his prayer's low murmur at thy knee. 

And o'er his slumber bend in breathless joy. 
Come to this tomb ! it hath a voice for thee ! 

Pray !— thou art blest— ask strength for sorrow's 
hour. 
Love, deep as thine, lays here its broken flower. 

Thou that art gathering from the smile of youth. 
Thy thousand hopes— rejoicing to behold. 

All the heart's depths before thee bright with truth, 
All the mind's treasure silently unfold ; 

Look on this tomb '.—for thee, too, speaks the grave. 

Where God hath seal'd the fount of hope he gave. 



THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF. 

" Oh ! call my brother back to me ! 

I cannot play alone ; 
The summer comes with flower and bee — 

Where is my brother gone ? 

The butterfly is glancing bright 

Across the sunbeam's track ; 
I care not now to chase its flight— 

Oh ! call my brother back ! 

The flowers run wild— the flowers we sow'd 

Around our garden tree : 
Our vine is drooping with its load — 

Oh ! call him back to me !" 

" He would not hear thy voice, fair child; 

He may not come to thee ; 
The face that once like spring-time smiled. 

On earth no more thou'lt see. 

" A rose's brief bright life of joy. 

Such unto him was given ; 
Go—thou must play alone, my boy ! 

Thy brother is in heaven." 

" And has he left his birds and flowers ; 

And must I call in vain ? 
And through the long, long summer hours, 

Will he not come again? 

And by the brook and in the glade 

Are all our wanderings o'er ? 
Oh ! while my brother with me play'd. 

Would I had loved him more !" 



270 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



A DIRGE. 

Calm on the bosom of thy God, 
Young spirit ! rest thee now ! 

Ev'n while with us thy footstep trod, 
His seal was on thy brow. 

Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! 

Soul, to its place on high ! 
They that have seen thy look in death, 

No more may fear to die. 

Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers. 
Whence thy meek smile is gone ; 

But oh ! a brighter home than ours, 
In heaven, is now thine own. 



HYMN BY THE SICK BED OF A MOTHER. 



Father ! that in the olive shade 
When the dark hour came on, 
Didst, with a bieath of heavenly aid, 
Strengthen thy Son ; 

Oh ! by the anguish of that night, 

Send us down blest relief; 
Or to the chasten 'd, let thy might 
Hallow this grief! 

And Thou, that when the starry sky 

Saw the dread strife begun, 
Didst teach adoring faith to cry, 

" Thy will be done !" 

By thy meek spirit, Thou, of all 

That e'er have mourn'd the chief— 
Thou Saviour ! if the stroke must fall, 
Hallow this grief! 



BIRTH-DAY LINES 
TO A YOUNG CHILD IN AUTUMN. 

Where sucks the bee now ? — Summer is flying ; 
Leaves on the grass-plot faded are lying ; 
Violets are gone from their grassy dell. 
With the cowslip-cups, where the fairies dwell; 
The rose from the garden hath pass'd away — 
Yet happy, fair boy I is thy natal day. 

For love bids it welcome, the love which hath 

smiled 
Ever around thee, my gentle child ! 
Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed, 
And pouring out joy on thy sunny head. 
Roses may vanish, but this will stay-r 
Happy and bright is thy natal day. 



ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 

Thou wak'st from happy sleep, to play 
With bounding heart, my boy ! 

Before thee lies a long bright day 
Of summer and of joy. 

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream, 

To cloud thy fearless eye ; — 
Long be it thus— life's early stream 

Should still reflect the sky. 

Yet ere the cares of life lie dim 

On thy young spirit's wings. 
Now in thy morn forget not Him 

From whom each pure thought springs ! 

So in the onward vale of tears. 

Where'er thy path may be. 
When strength hath bow'd to evil years — 

He will remember thee. 



Sown^ I5C tHe ^tltttimxu. 



They tell but dreams— a lonely spirit^s dreams- 
Yet ever through their fleeting imagery 
Wanders a vein of melancholy love, 
An aimless thought of home : — as in the song 
Of the caged skylark ye may deem there dwells 
A passionate memory of blue skies and flowers, 
And living streams— far ofl"! 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



A SPIRIT'S RETURN. 



This is to be a mortal, 
And seek the things beyond mortality ! 

Manfred. 

Thy voice prevails ; dear Friend, my gentle Friend ! 
This long shut heart for thee shall be unseal'd. 
And though thy soft eye mournfully will bend 
Over the troubled stream, yet once reveal'd 
Shall its freed waters flow ; then rocks must close 
For evermore, above their dark repose. 

Come while the gorgeous mysteries of the sky 

Fused in the crimson sea of sunset lie ; 

Come to the woods, where all strange wandering 

sound 
Is mingled into harmony profound ; 



Wliere the leaves thrill with spirit, while the wind 
Fills with a viewless being, unconfined. 
The trembling reeds and fountains;— Our own dell. 
With its green dimness and ^olian breath. 
Shall suit th' unveiling of dark records well — 
Hear me in tenderness and silent faith ! 

Thou knew'st me not in life's fresh vernal noon — 
I would thou hadst ! — for then my heart on thine 
Had pour'd a worthier love ; now, all o'erworn 
By its deep thirst for something too divine, 
It hath but fitful music to bestow. 
Echoes of harp-strings, broken long ago. 

Yet even in youth companionless I stood. 
As a lone forest-bird midst ocean's foam ; 
For me the silver cords of brotherhood 
Were early loosed ; the voices from my home 
Pass'd one by one, and Melody and Mirth 
Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth. 

But with the fullness of a heart that burn'd 
For the deep sympathies of mind, I turn'd 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



271 



From that unansweriiig spot, and fondly sought 
In all wild scenes with thrilling murmurs fraught, 
In every still small voice and sound of power, 
And flute-note of the wind tlurough cave and 

bower, 
A perilous delight !— for then iirst woke 
My life's lone passion, the mysterious quest 
Of secret knowledge ; and each tone that broke 
From the wood-arches or the fountain's breast, 
Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyre. 
But minister'd to that strange inborn fire. 

'Midst the bright silence of the mountain-dells, 
In noontide hours or golden summer-eves. 
My thoughts liave burst forth as a gale that swells 
Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves 
Shakes out response ;— O thou rich world unseen ! 
Thou curtain'd realm of spirits ! — Thus my cry 
Hath troubled air and silence — dost thou lie 
Spread all around, yet by some filmy screen 
Shut from us ever? — The resounding woods. 
Do their depths teem with marvels? — and the 

floods. 
And the pure fountains, leading secret veins 
Of quenchless melody through rock and hill. 
Have they bright dwellers ? — are their lone do- 
mains 
Peopled vs'ith beauty, which may never still 
Our weary thirst of soul ? — Cold, weak and cold 
Is Earth's vain language, piercing not one fold 
Of our deep being !— Oli, for gifts more high ! 
For a seer's glance to rend mortality ! 
For a charm'd rod, to call from each dark shrine, 
The oracles divine ! 

1 woke from those high fantasies, to know 
My kindred with the Earth — I woke to love ; 
O, gentle Friend ! to love in doubt and woe, 
Shutting the heart the worshipp'd name above, 
Is to love deeply— and my spirit's dower 
Was a sad gift, a melancholy power 
Of so adoring ; — with a buried care, 
And with the o'erflowing of a voiceless prayer. 
And with a deepening dream, that day by day, 
In the still shadow of its lonely sway. 
Folded me closer ; — till the world held naught 
Save the one Being to my centred thought. 
There was no music but his voice to hear. 
No joy but such as with his step drew near ; 
Light was but where he look'd — life where he 

moved — 
Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved. 
Oh! but such love is fearful ! — and I knew 
Its gathering doom : — the soul's prophetic sight 
Even then unfolded in my breast, and threw 
O'er all things round, a full, strong, vivid light. 
Too sorrowfully clear ! — an under-tone 
Was given to Nature's harp, for me alone 
Whispering of grief — Of grief?— be strong, awake! 
Hath not thy love been victory, O, my soul ? 
Hath not its conflict won a voice to shake 
Death's fastnesses ? — a magic to control 
Worlds far removed? — from o'er the grave to thee 
Love hath made answer ; and thy tale should be 
Sung like a lay of triumph! — Now return, 
And take thy treasure from itsbosom'd urn, 
And lift it once to light ! 

In fear, in pain, 
I said I loved — but yet a heavenly strain 
Of sweetness floated down the tearful stream, 
A joy flash'd through the trouble of my dream ! 
I knew myself beloved I — we breathed no vow. 
No mingling visions might our fate allow. 
As unto happy hearts ; but still and deep, 
Like a rich jewel gleaming in a grave. 
Like golden sand in some dark river's wave, 
So did my soul that costly knowledge keep 
So jealously !— a thing o'er which to shed. 
When stars alone beheld the drooping head, 
Lone tears I yet ofttimes burden'd with th' excess 
Of our strange nature's quivering happiness. 

But, oh ! sweet Friend ! we dream not of love's 

might 
Till Death has robed with soft and solemn light 
The image we enshrine! — Before that hour. 
We have but glimpses of the o'ermastering power 



Within us laid \—then doth the spirit-flame 
With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame ; 
The wings of that which pants to follow fast, 
Shake their clay-bars, as with a prison'd blast,— 
The sea is in our souls 1 

He died, he died, 
On whom my lone devotedness was cast ! 
I might not keep one vigil by his side, 
/, whose wrung heart watch'd with him to the 

last! 
I might not once his fainting head sustain. 
Nor bathe his parch'd lips in the hour of pain. 
Nor say to him, " Farewell !" — He pass'd away^- 
O ! had my love been there, its conquering sway 
Had won him back from death ! — but thus removed, 
Borne o'er the abyss no sounding-line hath proved, 
Join'd with the unknown, the viewless,— he be- 
came 
Unto my thoughts another, yet the same — 
Changed — hallow'd — glorified ! — and his low grave 
Seem'd a bright mournful altar — mine, all mine : — 
Brother and Friend soon left me that sole shrine. 
The birthright of the Faithful ! — their world's wave 
Soon swept them from its brink. — Oh ! deem thou 

not 
That on the sad and consecrated spot 
My soul grew weak ! — I tell thee that a power 
There kindled heart and lip; — a fiery shower 
My words were made ; — a might was given to 

prayer, 
And a strong grasp to passionate despair. 
And a dread triumph! — Know'st thou what I 

sought ? 
For what high boon my struggling spirit wrought? 
— Communion with the dead !— I sent a cry 
Through the veil'd empires of eternity, 
A voice to cleave them ! By the mournful truth, 
By the lost promise of my blighted youth, 
By the strong chain a mighty love can bind 
On the beloved, the spell of mind o'er mind ; 
By words, which in themselves are magic high, 
Arm'd, and inspired, and wing'd with agony ; 
By tears, which comfort not, but burn, and seem 
To bear the heart's blood in their passion-stream; 
I summon'd, I adjured! — with quicken'd sense. 
With the keen vigil of a life intense, 
I watch'd, an answer from the winds to wring, 
I listen'd, if perchance the stream might bring 
Token from worlds afar : I taught one sound 
Unto a thousand echoes; one profound 
Imploring accent to the tomb, the sky; 
One prayer to night, — "Awake, appear, reply !" 

Hast thou been told that from the viewless bourne, 
The dark way never hath allow'd return ? 
TJiat all, which tears can move, with life is fled. 
That earthly love is powerless on the dead? 
Believe it not!— there is a large lone star, 
Now burning o'er yon western hill afar, 
And under it's clear light there lies a spot. 
Which well might utter forth— Believe it not ! 

I sat beneath that planet,— I had wept 
My woe to stillness; every night-wind slept; 
A hush was on the hills ; the very streams 
Went by like clouds, or noiseless founts in dreams, 
And the dark tree o'ershadowing me that hour. 
Stood motionless, even as the gray church-tower 
Whereon I gazed unconsciously :— there came 
A low sound, like the tremour of a flame, 
Or like the light quick shiver of a wing 
Flitting through twilight woods, across the air ; 
And I iook'd up !— Oh ! for strong words to bring 
Conviction o'er thy thought ! — Before me there, 
He, the Departed, stood !— Aye, face to face- 
So near, and yet how far !— his form, his mien. 
Gave to remembrance back each burning trace 
Within ;— Yet something awfully serene. 
Pure,— sculpture-like, — on the pale brow that wore 
Of the once beating heart no token more ; 
And stillness on the lip — and o'er the hair 
A gleam, that trembled through the breathless air ; 
And an unfathom'd calm, that seem'd to lie 
In the grave sweetness of the illumined eye ; 
Told of the gulfs between our being set, 
And, as that unsheathed spirit-glance I met. 



272 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Made my soul faint : — with /ear? — Oh! not with 

fear ! 
With the sick feeling that in his far sphere 
My love could be as nothing ! — But he spoke — 
How shall I tell thee of the startling thrill 
In that low voice, whose breezy tones could fill 
My bosom's infinite? — O Friend, I woke 
Then first to heavenly life ! — Soft, solemn, clear, 
Breathed the mysterious accents on mine ear. 
Yet strangely seem'd as if the while they rose 
From depths of distance, o'er the wide repose 
Of slumbering waters wafted, or the dells 
Of mountains, hollow with sweet echo-cells ; 
But, as they murmur'd on, the mortal chill 
Pass'd from me, like a mist before the morn, 
And, to that glorious intercourse upborne. 
By slow degrees, a calm, divinely still, 
Possess'd my frame : — I sought that lighted eye, — 
From its intense and searching purity 
I drank in soul ! — I question'd of the dead — 
Of the liush'd, starry shores their footsteps tread — 
And I was answer'd :— if remembrance there, 
With dreamy whispers fill the immortal air ; 
If Thought, here piled from many a jewel-heap, 
Be treasure in that pensive land to keep ; 
If Love, o'ersweeping change, and blight, and 

blast, 
Find there the music of his home at last ; 
I ask'd, and I was answer'd : — Full and high 
Was that communion with eternity. 
Too rich for aught so fleeting !— Like a knell 
Swept o'er my sense its closing words,—" Fare- 
well, 
On earth we meet no more !"— and all Was gone— 
The pale bright settled brow— the thrilling tone — 
The stUl and shining eye !— and never more 
May twilight gloom or midnight hush restore 
That radiant guest ! — One full-fraught hour of 

Heaven, 
To earthly passion's wild implorings given, 
Was made my own— the ethereal fire hath shiver'd 
The fragile censer in whose mould it quiver'd. 
Brightly, consumingly !— What now is left 7 — 
A faded world, of glory's hues bereft, 
A void, a chain! — I dwell 'midst throngs, apart. 
In the cold silence of the stranger's heart ; 
A fix'd, immortal shadow stands between 
My spirit and life's fast-receding scene ; 
A gift hath sever'd me from human ties, 
A power is gone from all earth's melodies. 
Which never may return : — their chords are bro- 
ken — 
The music of another land hath spoken, — 
No after-sound is sweet !— this weary thirst I— 
And I have heard celestial fountains burst ! — 
What here shall quench it ? 

Dost thou not rejoice. 
When the spring sends forth an awakening voice 
Through the young woods ? — Tliou dost !— And in 

that birth 
Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth. 
Thousands, like thee, find gladness!— Couldst thou 

know 
How every breeze then summons me to go ! 
How all the light of love and beauty shed 
By those rich hours, but wooes me to the Dead ! 
The only beautiful that change no more. 
The only loved !— the dwellers on the shore 
Of spring fiilfiU'd !— The Dead \—whom call we so ? 
They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know 
Things wrapt from us !— Away I— within me 

pent, 
That which is barr'd from its own element 
Still droops or struggles !— But the day willcorae. — 
Over the deep the free bird finds its home. 
And the stream lingers 'midst the rocks, yet greets 
The sea at last ; and the wing'd flower-seed meets 
A soil to rest in :— shall not /, too, be, 
My spirit-love ! upborne to dwell with thee ? 
Yes ! by the power whose conquering anguish 

stirr'd 
The tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard. 
Whose agony of triumph won thee back 
Through the dim pass no mortal step may track. 
Yet shall we meet !— that glimpse of joy divine, 
Proved thee for ever and for ever mine ! 



THE LADY OF PROVENCE* 



Courage was cast about her like a dresa 

Of solemn comeliness, 
A gather'd mind and an untroubled face 

Did give her dangers grace. 

Bonne. 

The war-note of the Saracen 

Was on the winds of France ; 
It had still'd the harp of the Troubadour, 

And the clash of the tourney's lance. 

The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night, 
And the hollow echoes of charge and flight. 
Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray 
In a chapel where the mighty lay. 

On the old Provencal shore ; 
Many a Chatillon beneath, 
Uiistirr'd by the ringing trumpet's breath. 

His shroud of armour wore. 
And tlie glimpses of moonlight that went and 

came 
Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flame. 
Gave quivering life to the slumber pale 
Of stern forms couch'd in their marble mail. 
At rest on the tombs of the knightly race. 
The silent throngs of that burial-place. 

They were imaged there with helm and spear, 
As leaders in many a bold career. 
And haughty their stillness look'd and high. 
Like a sleep whose dreams were of victory ; 
But meekly the voice of the lady rose 
Through the trophies of their proud repose ; 
Meekly, yet fervently, calling down aid, 
Under their banners of battle she pray'd; 
With her pale fair brow, and her eyes of love, 
Upraised to the Virgin's pourtray'd above. 
And Iter hair flung back, till it swept the grave 
Of a Chatillon with its gloomy wave. 
A nd her fragile frame, at every blast, 
That full of the savage war-horn pass'd. 
Trembling, as trembles a bird's quick heart, 
When it vainly strives from its cage to part, — 

So knelt she in her woe ; 
A weeper alone with the tearless dead — 
Oh ! they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shed, 

Or the dust had stirr'd below ! 

Hark ! a swift step ! she hath caught its tone, 
Through the dash of the sea, through the wild 

wind's moan ; — 
Is her lord return'd with his conquering bands? 
No ! a breathless vassal before her stands ! 
— "Hast thou been on the field?— Art thou come 

from the host?" 
— " From the slaughter, lady !— All, all is lost ! 
Our banners are taken, our knights laid low, 
Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe. 
And thy Lord," his voice took a sadder sound — 
"Thy Lord— he is not on the bloody ground ! 
There are those who tell that the leader's plume 
Was seen on the flight through the gathering 

gloom." 

—A change o'er her mien and her spirit past; 
She ruled the heart which had beat so fast. 
She dash'd the tears from her kindling eye, 
With a glance, as of sudden royalty : 
The proud blood sprang in a fiery flow, 
Cluick o'er bosom, and cheek, and brow. 
And her young voice rose till the peasant shook 
At the thrilling tone and the falcon-look : 
—"Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious 

dead. 
And fear not to say, that their son hath fled ? 
— Away ! he is lying by lance and shield, — 
Point me the path to his battle-field!" 

The shadows of the forest 

Are about the lady now ; 
She is hurrying through the midnight on, 

Beneath the dark pine bough. 

* Founded on an incident in the early French "history. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



273 



There 's a murmur of omens in every leaf, 
There's a wail in the stream like the dirge of a 

chief; 
The branches that rock to the tempest-strife, 
Are groaning like things of troubled life ; 
The wind from the battle seems rUsliing by 
With a funeral march through the gloomy sky ; 
The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long, 
But her frame in the daring of love is strong, 
And her soul as on swelling seas upborne. 
And girded all fearful things to scorn. 

And fearful things were around her spread. 
When she reach'd the field of the warrior-dead ; 
There lay the noble, the valiant, low — 
Ay ! but one word speaks of deeper woe; 
There lay the loved — on each fallen head 
Mothers vain blessings and tears had shed ; 
Sisters were watching in many a home 
For the fetter'd footstep, no more to come; 
Names in the prayer of that night were spoken, 
Whose claim unto kindred prayer was broken ; 
And the tire was heap'd, and the bright wine 

pour'd. 
For those, now needing nor hearth nor board ; 
Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell, 
And oh! ye beloved of woman, farewell! 

Silently, with lips compress'd, 
Pale hands clasp'd above her breast. 
Stately brow of anguish high. 
Death-like cheek, but dauntless eye; 
Silently, o'er that red plain. 
Moved the lady 'midst the slain. 

Sometimes it seem'd as a charging cry, 
Or the ringing tramp of a steed, came nigh ; 
Sometimes a blast of the Paynim horn. 
Sudden and shrill from the mountains borne ; 
And her maidens trembled; — but on her ear 
No meaning fell with those sounds of fear ; 
They had less of mastery to shake her now. 
Than the quivering, erewhile, of an aspen bough. 
She search'd into many an unclosed eye. 
That look'd, without soul, to the starry sky; 
She bow'd down o'er many a shatter'd breast, 
She lifted up helmet and cloven crest — 

Not there, not there he lay ! 
" Lead where the most hath been dared and done, 
Where the heart of the battle hath bled,— lead on !" 

And the vassal took the way. 

He turn'd to a dark and lonely tree 
That waved o'er a fountain red ; 

Oh ! swiftest, fAere had the currents free. 
From noble veins been shed. 

Thickest there the spear-heads gleam'd, 
And the scatter'd plumage stream'd. 
And the broken shields were toss'd, 
And the shiver'd lances cross'd, 
And the mail-clad sleepers round 
Made the harvest of that ground. 

He was there ! the leader amidst his band. 
Where the faithful had made their last vain stand ; 
He was there ! but affection's glance alone 
The darkly-changed in that hour had known ; 
With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasp'd. 
And a banner of France to his bosom clasp'd. 
And the form that of conflict bore fearful trace. 
And the face — oh ! speak not of that dead face ! 
As it lay to answer love's look no more. 
Yet never so proudly loved before ! 
She quell'd in her soul the deep floods of woe. 
The time was not yet for their waves to flow ; 
She felt the full presence, the might of death. 
Yet there came no sob with her struggling breath. 
And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair. 
As she turn'd to his followers — "Your Lord is 

there ! 
Look on him! know him by scarf and crest ! — 
Bear him away with his sires to rest !" 

Another day — another night — 

And the sailor on the deep 
Hears the low chant of a funeral rite 

From the lordly chapel sweep : 

35 



It comes with a broken and muffled tone. 

As if that rite were in terror done; 

Yet the song 'midst the seas hath a thrilling 

power. 
And he knows 'tis a chieftain's burial hour 

Hurriedly, in fear and woe, 
Througli the aisle the mourners go ; 
With a hush'd and stealthy tread. 
Bearing on the noble dead. 
Sheathed in armour of the field- 
Only his wan face reveal'd, 
Whence the still and solemn gleam 
Doth a strange sad contrast seem 
To the anxious eyes of that pale band. 
With torches wavering in every hand, 
For they dread each moment the shoutof war. 
And tlie burst of the Moslem scimitar. 

There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend. 

No brother of battle, no princely friend ; 

No sound comes back like the sounds of yore. 

Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor ;. 

By the red fountain the valiant lie, 

The flower of Provencal chivalry. 

But one free step, and one lofty heart. 

Bear through that scene, to the last, their part. 

She hath led the death-train of the brave 
To the verge of his own ancestral grave ; 
She hath held o'er her spirit long rigid sway, 
But the struggling passion must now have way. 
In the cheek, half seen through her mourning veil. 
By turns does the swift blood flush and fail ; 
The pride on the lip is lingering still. 
But it shakes as a flame to the blast might thrill •, 
Anguish and Triumph are met at strife. 
Rending the chords of her frail young life ; 
And she sinks at last on her warrior's bier. 
Lifting her voice, as if Death might hear. — 

" I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong. 

My soul hath risen for thy glory strong! 

Now call me hence, by thy side to be. 

The world thou leavest has no place for me. 

The light goes with thee, the joy, the worth — 

Faithful and tender ! Oh ! call me forth ! 

Give me my home on thy noble heart, — 

Well have we loved, let us both depart !" 

And pale on the breast of the Dead she lay. 
The living cheek to the cheek of clay ; 
The living cheek ! — Oh ! it was not vain. 
That strife of the spirit to rend its chain ; 
She is there at rest in her place of pride. 
In death how queen-like — a glorious bride ! 

Joy for the freed One !— she might not stay 
When the crown had fallen from her life away ; 
She might not linger — a weary thing, 
A dove, with no home for its broken wing. 
Thrown on the harshness of alien skies. 
That know not its own land's melodies. 
From the long heai't-withering early gone ; 
She hath lived — she hath loved— her task is done f 



THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO. 



Tableau, ou I'Amour fait alliance avec la Tombe: union redou- 
table de la mort et de la vie I — Madams, de Stael, 

There was music on the midnight ; — 

From a royal fane it roll'd, 
And a mighty bell, each pause between, 

Sternly and slowly toll'd. 
Strange was their mingling in the sky, 

It hush'd the listener's breath ; 
For the music spoke of triumph high. 

The lonely bell, of death. 

There was hurrying through the midnight— 

A sound of many feet : 
But they fell with a muffled fearfulness. 

Along the shadowy street : 



274 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



And softer, fainter, grew their tread, 
, As it near'd the minster-gate, 
Whence a broad and solemn light was shed 
From a scene of royal state. 

Full glovv'd the strong red radiance. 

In the centre of the nave, 
Where the folds of a purple canopy 

Swept down in many a wave ; 
Loading the marble pavement old 

With a weight of gorgeous gloom. 
For something lay 'midst their fretted gold, 

Like. a shadow of the tomb. 

And within that rich pavilion. 

High on a glittering throne, 
A woman's form sat silently, 

'Midst the glare of light alone. 
Her jewell'd robes fell strangely still— 

The drajiery on her breast 
Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill. 

So stoneiike was its rest ! 

But a peal of lordly music 

Shook e'en the dust below. 
When the burning gold of the diadem 

Was set on her pallid brow ! 
Then died away that haughty sound. 

And from the encircling band 
Stept Prince and Chief, 'midst the hush profound. 

With homage to her hand. 

Why pass'd a faint, cold shuddering 

Over each martial frame. 
As one by one, to touch that hand. 

Noble and leader came ? 
Was not the settled aspect fair 7 

Did not a queenly grace. 
Under the parted ebon hair, 

Sit on the pale still face ? 

Death ! Death ! canst thou be lovely 

Unto the eye of Life ? 
Is not each pulse of the quick high breast 

With thy cold mien at strife ? 
—It was a strange and fearful sight. 

The crown upon that head, 
Tlie glorious robes, and the blaze of light. 

All gather'd round the Dead ! 

And beside her stood in silence 

One vsfith a brow as pale. 
And white lips rigidly compress'd, 

Lest the strong heart should fail: 
King Pedro, with a jealous eye, 

Watching the homage done, 
By the land's flower and chivalry. 

To her, his martyr'd one. 

But on the face he look'd not. 

Which once his star had been ; 
To every form his glance vi^as turn'd. 

Save of the breathless queen : 
Tho' something, won from the grave's embrace. 

Of her beauty still was there, 
Its hues were all of that shadowy place. 

It was not for him to bear. 

Alas! the crown, the sceptre, 

The treasures of the earth, 
And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts, 

Alike of wasted worth! 
The rites are closed : — bear back the Dead 

Unto the chamber deep ! 
Lay down again the royal head. 

Dust with the dust to sleep ! 

There is music on the midnight — 

A requiem sad and slow. 
As the mourners through the sounding aisle 

In dark procession go ; 
And the ring of state, and the starry crown 

And all the rich array. 
Are borne to the house of silence down, 

With her, that queen of clay ! 

And tearlessly and firmly 

King Pedro led the train, — 
But his face was wrapt in his folding robe. 

When they lower'd the dust again. 



'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above. 

Hymns die, and steps depart : 
Who call'd thee strong as Death, OLove? 

Mightier thou wast and art. 



ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. 



sanctissima, o purissima ! 

Dulcis Virgo Maria, 
Mater amala, intemerata, 

Ora, ora pro Dobis. 

Sicilian Mariner's Hymn. 



In the deep hour of dreams. 
Through the dark woods, and past the moaning sea, 

And by the star-light gleams, 
Mother of Sorrows ! lo, I come to thee. 

Unto thy shrine I bear 
Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to lie 

All, all unfolded there. 
Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye. 

For thou, that once didst move, 
In thy still beauty, through an early home. 

Thou know'st the grief, the love. 
The fear of woman's soul ; to thee I come ! 

Many, and sad, and deep. 
Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast ; 

Thou, too, couldst watch and weep — 
Hear, gentlest mother ! hear a heart oppress'd ! 

There is a wandering bark 
Bearing one from me o'er the restless waves ; 

Oh ! let thy soft eye mark 
His course ;— be with him. Holiest, guide and save ! 

My soul is on that way ; 
My thoughts are travellers o'er the waters dim, 

Through the long weary day, 
I walk, o'ershadow'd by vain dreams of him. 

Aid him, and me, too, aid ! 
Oh ! 'tis not well, this earthly love's excess ! 

On thy weak child is laid 
The burden of too deep a tenderness. 

Too much o'er him is pour'd 
My being's hope— scarce leaving Heaven a part ; 

Too fearfully adored. 
Oh ! make not him the chastener of my heart ! 

I tremble with a sense 
Of grief to be ; I hear a warning low — 

Sweet mother ! call me hence ! 
This wild idolatry must end in woe. 

The troubled joy of life. 
Love's lightning happiness, my soul hath known ; 

And, worn with feverish strife, 
Would fold its wings ; — take back, take back thine 
own ! 

Hark ! how the wind swept by ! 
The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er the wave — 

Hope of the sailor's eye. 
And maiden's heart, blest mother, guide and save ! 



TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT. 

From the bright stars, or from the viewless air. 
Or from some world unreach'd by human thought, 
Spirit, sweet spirit ! if thy home be there, 
And if thy visions with the past be fraught. 

Answer me, answer me ! 

Have we not communed here with life and death ? 
Have we not said tliat love, such love as ours. 
Was not to perish as a rose's breath, 
To melt away, like song from festal bowers? 

Answer, oh ! answer me ! 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



275 



Thine eye's last light was mine — The soul that 

shone 
Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze — 
Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown, 
Naught of what lived in that long earnest gaze ? 
Hear, hear, and answer nie ! 

Thy voice— its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone 
Thrill'd through the tempest of the parting strife, 
Like a faint breeze : — oh ! from that music tiown. 
Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless life, 
But once, oh ! answer nie ! 

In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush. 

In the dead hour of night, when thought grows 

deep. 
When the heart's phantoms from the darkness rush. 
Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep — 

Spirit ! then answer me ! 

By the remembrance of our blended prayer ; 
By all our tears, whose mingling made them sweet; 
By our last hope, the victor o'er despair ; — 
Speak ! if our souls in deathless yearniiigs meet ; 
Answer me, answer me ! 

The grave is silent : — and the far-off sky. 
And the deep midnight — silent all, and lone ! 
Oh ! if thy buried love make no reply, 
What voice has Earth ?— Hear, pity, speak, mine 
own ! 

Answer me, answer me ! 



THE CHAMOIS HUNTER'S LOVE. 



For all bis wildneas and proud fantasies, 
I love him ! 

Croly. 

Thy heart is in the upper world, where fleet the 

Chamois bounds, 
Thy heart is where the mountain-fir shakes to the 

torrent-sounds ; 
And where the snow-peaks gleam like stars, through 

the stillness of the air. 
And where the Lauwine's* peal is heard — Hunter ! 

thy heart is there ! 
I know thou lov'st me well, dear Friend ! but bet- 
ter, better far, 
Thou lov'st that high and haughty life, with rocks 

and storms at war ; 
In the green sunny vales with me, thy spirit would 

but pine — 
And yet I will be thine, my Love ! and yet I will 

be thine ! 

And I will not seek to woo thee down from those 
thy native heights. 

With the sweet song, our land's own song, of pas- 
toral delights ; 

For thou must live as eagles live, thy path is not 
as mine — 

And yet I will be thine, my Love ! and yet I will 
be thine. 

And I will leave my blessed home, my Father's 

joyous hearth. 
With all the voices meeting there in tenderness 

and mirth, 
With all the kind and laughing eyes, that in its 

fire-light shine, 
To sit forsaken in thy hut, — yet know that thou 

art mine ! 

It is my youth, it is my bloom, it is my glad fi-ee 
heart, 

That I cast away for thee— for thee— all reckless 
as thou art ! 

With tremblings and with vigils lone, I bind my- 
self to dwell ; 

Yet, yet I would not change that lot, — oh no ! I 
love too well ! 

^Lauwine^ the avalanche. 



A mournful thing is love which igrows to one so 

wild as thou, 
With that bright restlessness of eye, that tameless 

fire of brow ! 
Mournful !— but dearer far I call its mingled fear 

and pride. 
And the trouble of its happiness, than aught on 

earth beside. 

To listen for thy step in vain, to start at every 

breath. 
To watch through long, long nights of storm, to 

sleep and dream of death, 
To wake in doubt and loneliness— this doom I 

know is mine, — 
And yet I will be thine, my Love ! and yet I will 

be thine ! 

That I may greet thee from thine Alps, when 

thence thou com'st at last, 
That I jnay hear thy tlu-illing voice tell o'er each 

danger past. 
That I may kneel and pray for thee, and win thee 

aid divine, — 
For this I will be thine, my Love ! for this I will 

be thine ! 



SONG OF EMIGRATION. 

There was heard a song on the chiming sea, 

A mingled breathing of grief and glee ; 

Man's voice, unbroken by sighs, vi'as there, 

Filling with triumph the sunny air ; 

Of fresh green lands, and of pastures new, 

It sang, while the bark through the surges flew. 

But ever and anon 

A murmur of farewell 
Told, by its plaintive tone. 

That from woman's lip it fell. 

"Away, away, o'er the foaming main !" 
— This was the free and the joyous strain — 
" There are clearer skies than ours, afar, 
We vs'ill shape our course by a brighter star ; 
There are plains whose verdure no foot hath press'd. 
And whose wealth is all for the first brave guest." 

" But alas ! that we should go" 
— Sang the farewell voices then — 

" From the homesteads, warm and low. 
By the brook and in the glen !" 

"We will rear new homes under trees that glow. 
As if gems were the fruitage of every bough ; 
O'er our white walls we will train the vine. 
And sit in its shadow at day's decline ; 
And watch our herds, as they range at will 
Through the green savannas, all bright and still." 

" But woe for that sweet shade 
Of the flowering orchard-trees, 

Where first our children play'd , 

'Midst the birds and honey-bees !" 

" All, all our own shall the forests he. 

As to the bound of the roebuck free I 

None shall say, ' Hither, no further pass 1' 

We will track each step through the wavy grass ; 

We will chase the elk in his speed and might. 

And bring proud spoils to the hearth at night." 

"But, oh! the gray church-tower. 
And the sound of Sabbath-bell, 

And the shelter'd garden-bower,— 
We have bid them all farewell I" 

" We will give the names of our fearless race 
To each bright river whose course we trace ; 
We will leave our memory with mounts and floods, 
And the path of our daring in boundless woods ! 
And our works unto many a lake's green shore. 
Where the Indian's graves lay, alone, before." 



276 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



" But who shall teach the flowers, 
Which our children loved, to dwell 

In a soil that is not ours ? 
—Home, holne and friends, farewell !" 



THE INDIAN WITH HIS DEAD CHILD* 



In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with my dead ; 
In the darkness of the forest-boughs, 

A lonely path I tread. 

But my heart is high and fearless, 

As by mighty wings upborne ; 
The mountain eagle hath not plumes 

So strong as Love and Scorn. 

I have raised thee from the grave-sod. 
By the vyhite man's path defiled ; 

On to th' ancestral wilderness, 
I bear thy dust, my child ! 

I have ask'd the ancient deserts 

To give my dead a place. 
Where the stately footsteps of the free 

Alone should leave a trace. 

And the tossing pines made answer — 
"Go, bring us back thine own!" 

And the stl-eams from all the hunters' hills, 
Rush'd with an echoing tone. 

Thou shalt rest by sounding waters 

That yet untamed may roll ; 
The voices of that chainless host 

With joy shall fill thy soul. 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with the dead. 
Where the arrows of my father's bow 

Their falcon flight have sped. 

I have left the spoiler's dwellings. 

For evermore, behind ; 
Unmingled with their household sounds. 

For me shall sweep the wind. 

Alone, amidst their hearth-fires, 

I watch'd my child's decay, 
Uncheer'd, I saw the spirit-light 

From his young eyes fade away., 

When his head sank on my bosom. 
When the death-sleep o'er him fell. 

Was there one to say, "A friend is near?" 
There was none ! — pale race, farewell ! 

To the forests, to the cedars. 

To the warrior and his bow. 
Back, back ! — I bore thee laughing thence, 

I bear thee slumbering now ! 

I bear thee unto burial 
With the mighty hunters gone; 

I shall hear thee in the forest-breeze. 
Thou wilt speak of joy, my son ! 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with the dead ; 
But ray heart is strong, my step is fleet, 

My father's path I tread. 



*An Indian, who had established himself in a township of 
Maine, feeling indignantly the want of sympathy evinced towards 
bim by the white inhabitants, particularly on the death of his only 
child, gave up his farm soon afterwards, dug up the body of his 
child, and carried it with him two hundred miles through the 
forests to join the Canadiaa ladiaQS. — See Tudoi-^s Letters on tkt 
Eastern States of America. 



THE KING OF ARRAGON'S LAMENT 
FOR HIS BROTHER.* 

If I could see him, it were well with me ! 

Coleridge^s Wallenstein. 

There were lights and sounds of revelling in the 

vanquish'd city's halls. 
As by night the feast of victory was held within 

its walls-i 
And the conquerors fill'd the wine-cup high, after 

years of bright blood shed ; 
But tlieir Lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst the 

triumph, wail'd the dead. 

He look'd down from the fortress won, on the tents 

and towers below. 
The moon-lit sea, the torch-lit streets, — and a 

gloom came o'er his brow : 
The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn 

and cymbal's tone ; 
But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more 

utterly alone. 

And he cried, " Thou art mine, fair city! thou city 

of the sea ! 
But, oh 1 what portion of delight is mine at last 

in thee ? 
— I am lonely 'midst thy palaces, while the glad 

waves past them roll, » 

And the soft breath of thine orange-bowers is 

mournful to my soul. 

" My brother ! oh ! my brother ! thou art gone,^- 

the true and brave. 
And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy 

grave ; 
There are many round my throne to stand, and to 

march where I lead on ; 
There was one to love me in the world,— my bro. 

ther ! thou art gone I 

" In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean-tempest's 

wrath. 
We stood together, side by side ; one hope was 

ours, — one path ; 
Thou hast wrapt me in the soldier's cloak, thou 

hast fenced me with thy breast ; 
Thou hast watch'd beside my couch of pain — oh ! 

bravest heart, and best ! 

" I see the festive lights around ;— o'er a dull sad 

world they shine ; 
I hear the voice of victory— my Pedro ! where is 

thine ? 
The only voice in whose kind tone my spirit found 

reply !— 
Oh brother I I have bought too dear this hollow 

pageantry I 

"I have hosts, and gallant fleets, to spread my 

glory and my sway. 
And chiefs to lead them fearlessly ;— my friend 

hath pass'd away ! 
For the kindly look, the word of cheer, my heart 

may thirst in vain. 
And the face that was as light to mine — it cannot 

come again ! 

" I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the 

offering for a crown ; 
With love, which earth bestows not twice, I have 

purchased cold renown ; 
How often will iny weary heart 'midst the sounds 

of triumph die, 
When I think of thee, my brother! thou flower of 

chivalry ! 

" I am lonely— I am lonely! this rest is even as 
death ! 

Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the bat- 
tle-trumpet's breath ; 

*The grief of Ferdinand, King of Arragon, for the loss of his 
brother, Don Pedro, who was killed during the siege of Naples, is 
affectingly described by the historian, Mariana. It is also the sub- 
ject of one of the old Spanish ballads in Loclihart's beautiful col- 
lection. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



277 



Let me see the flery charger foam, and the royal 

banner wave — 
But where art thou, my brother? where?— in thy 

low and early grave !" 

And louder swell'd the songs of joy through that 

victorious night, 
And faster flow'd the red wine forth, by the stars' 

and torches' light ; 
But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard 

the conqueror's moan — 
" My brother ! oli ! my brother ! best and bravest ! 

thou art gone !" 



THE VAUDOIS' WIFE* 



Clasp me a little longer, on the brink 

Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress: 
And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh 1 think — 

And let it mitigate thy woe's excess — 

That thou to me hast been all tenderness. 
And friend, to more than human friendship just. 

Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness. 
And by the hopes of an immortal trust, 
God shall assuage thy pangs, when I am laid in dust. 

Gertrude of Wyoming. 



Thy voice is in mine ear, beloved ! 
: Thy look is in my heart. 
Thy bosom is my resting-place. 

And yet I must depart. 
Earth on my soul is strong — too strong — 

Too precious is its chain. 
All woven of thy love, dear friend, 

Yet vain— though mighty — vain ! 

Thou see 'St mine eye grow dim, beloved ! 

Thou see 'St my life-blood flow. — 
Bow to the chastener silently, 

And calmly let me go ! 
A little while between our hearts 

The shadowy gulf must lie, 
Yet have we for their communing 

Still, still Eternity ! 

Alas ! thy tears are on my cheek, 

My spirit they detain ; 
I know that from thine agony 

Is wrung that burning rain. 
Best, kindest, weep not ;— make the pang. 

The bitter conflict, less — 
Oh ! sad it is, and yet a joy, 

To feel thy love's excess ! 

But calm thee ! Let the thought of death 

A solemn peace restore ! 
The voice that must be silent soon. 

Would speak to thee once more. 
That thou may'st bear its blessing on 

Through years of after life — 
A token of consoling love, 

Even from this hour of strife. 

I bless thee for the noble heart. 

The tender, and the true, 
Where mine hath found tlie happiest rest 

That e'er fond woman's knew; 
I bless thee, faithful friend and guide. 

For my own, my treasured share. 
In the mournful secrets of thy soul. 

In thy sorrow, in thy prayer. 

I bless thee for kind looks and words 

Shower'd on my path like dew. 
For all the love in those deep eyes 

A gladness ever new ! 
For the voice which ne'er to mine replied 

But in kindly tones of cheer; 
For every spring of happiness 

My soul hath tasted here ! 



*The wife of a Vaudois leader, in one of the attacks made on the 
Protestant hamlets, received a mortal wound, and died in her hus- 
band's arms, exhorting him to courage and endurance. 



I bless thee for the last rich boon 

Won from affection tried, 
The right to gaze on death with thee. 

To perish by thy side ! 
And yet more for the glorious hope 

Even to these moments givon^— 
Did not thy spirit ever lift 

The trust of inine to Heaven ? 

Now be thou strong ! Oh ! knew we not 

Our path must lead to this ? 
A shadow and a trembling still ' 

Were mingled vidth our bliss ! 
We plighted our young hearts when storms 

Were dark upon the sky, 
In full, deep knowledge of their task 

To sutler and to die ! 

Be strong ! I leave the living voice 

Of this, my martyr'd blood, 
With the thousand echoes of the hills, 

With the torrent's foaming flood, — 
A spirit 'midst the caves to dwell, 

A token on the air, 
To rouse the valiant from repose, 

The fainting from despair. 

Hear it, and bear thou on, my love ! 

Ayi joyously endure ! 
Our mountains must be altars yet. 

Inviolate and pure ; 
There must our God be worshipp'd still 

With the worsliip of tlie free- 
Farewell ! there's but one pang in death. 

One only, — leaving thee ! 



THE GUERILLA LEADER'S VOW. 



All my pretty ones ! 



Let us make medicine of this great revenge. 
To cure this deadly grief \ 

Macbeth. 



My battle-vow ! — no minster walls 

Gave back the burning word. 
Nor cross nor shrine the low deep tone 

Of smother'd vengeance heard ; 
But the ashes of a ruin'd home 

Thrill'd, as it sternly rose, 
With the mingling voice of blood that shook 

The midnight's dark repose. 

I breathed it not o'er kingly tombs, 

But where my children'lay. 
And the startled vulture, at my step, 

Soar'd from their precious clay. 
I stood amidst my dead alone — 

I kiss'd their lips — I pour'd. 
In the strong silence of that hour. 

My spirit on my sword. 

The roof-tree fall'n, the smouldering floor. 

The blacken'd threshold-stone. 
The bright hair torn, and soil'd with blood, 

Whose fountain was my own ; 
These, and the everlasting hills. 

Bore witness that wild night; 
Before them rose th' avenger's soul. 

In crush'd affection's might. 

The stars, the searching stars of heaven, 

'With keen looks would upbraid. 
If from ray heart the fiery vow, 

Sear'd on it then, could fade. 
They have no cause '. — Go, ask the streams 

That by my paths have swept. 
The red waves that unstain'd were born — 

How hath my faith been kept ? 

And other eyes are on my soul, 

That never, never close, 
The sad, sweet glances of the lost — 

They leave me no repose. 



278 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Haunting my night-watch 'midst the rocks, 

And by the torrent's foam, 
Through the dark -rolling mists they shine, 

Full, full of love and home ! 

Alas I the mountain eagle's heart. 

When wrong'd, may yet find rest ; 
Scorning the place made desolate, 

He seeks an,other nest. 
But I— your soft looks wake the thirst 

That wins no quenching rain ; 
Ye drive me back, my beautiful ! 

To the stormy fight again ! 



THE RETURN. 



"Hast thou come vvitli the heart of thy childhood 
back? 

The free, the pure, the kind ?" 
— So murmur'd the trees in my homeward track. 

As they play'd to the mountain-wind. 

" Hath thy soul been true to its early love ?" 

Whisper'd my native streams ; 
"Hath the spirit nursed amidst hill and grove, 

Still revered its first high dreams ?" 

" Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer 

Of the child in his parent-halls?" 
— Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air. 

From the old ancestral walls. , 

" Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead, 

Whose place of rest is nigh ? 
With the father's blessing o'er thee shed. 

With the mother's trusting eye ?" 

— Then my tears gush'd forth in sudden rain, 

As I ansvver'd — " O, ye shades ! 
I bring not my childhood's heart again 

To the freedom of your glades. 

" I have turn'd trom ray first pure love aside, 

O bright and happy streams ! 
Light after light, in my soul have died 

The day-spring's glorious di'eams. 

"And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath 
pass'd — 

The prayer at my mother's knee ; 
Darken'd and troubled I come at last, 

Home of my boyish glee ! 

■" But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears, 

To soften and atone ; 
And oh ! ye scenes of those blessed years. 

They shall make me again your own." 



THEKLA AT HER LOVER'S GRAVE.* 



Thither where he lies buried t 
That single spot is the whole world to me. 

Coleridgc^s Wdlleiistdn. 

Thy voice was in my soul ! it call'd me on ; 

O my lost friend ! thy voice was in my soul : 
From the cold, faded world, whence thou art gone. 

To hear no more life's troubled billows roll, 
I come, I come ! 

Now speak to me again ! we loved so well — 

We loved ! oh ! still, I know that still we love ! 
I have left all things with thy dust to dwell, 
Through these dim aisles in dreams of thee to 
rove : 

This is my home ! 

Speak to me in the thrilling minster's gloom ! 

Speak ! thou hast died, and sent me no farewell ! 
I will not shrink ; — oh ! mighty is the tomb. 

But one thing mightier, which it cannot quell. 
This woman's heart ! 

*See Wallenstein, Act 6. 



This lone, full, fragile heart !— the strong alone 
In love and grief— of both the burning shrine ! 

Tiiou, my soul's friend ! with grief hast surely done. 
But with the love which made thy spirit mine, 
Say, couldst thou part ? 

I hear the rustling banners ; and I hear 
The wind's low singing through the fretted 
stone ; ' 
I hear not thee; and yet I feel thee near — 
What is this bound that keeps thee from thine 
own ? 

Breathe it away ! 

I wait thee — I adjure thee ! hast thou known 
How I have loved thee ? couldst thou dream it 
all? 
Am I not here, with night and death alone. 
And fearing not ? and hath my spirit's call 
O'er thine no sway? 

Thou canst not come ! or thus I should not weep ! 

Thy love is deathless — but no longer free! 
Soon would its wing triumphantly o'ersweep 

The viewless barrier, if such power might be, 
Soon, soon, and fast ! 

But I shall come to thee ! our souls' deep (Jreams, 
Our young affections, have not gush'd in vain ; 
Soon in one tide shall blend the sever'd streams. 
The worn heart break its bonds — and death and 
pain 

Be with the past ! 



THE SISTERS OF SCIO. 



As are our hearts, our way is one. 
And cannot be divided. Strong affection 
Contends with all thin^, and o'ercometh all things. 
Will I not live with thee ? v/iU I not cheer thee ? 
Wouldst thou be lonely then ? wouldst thou be sad ? 

Joanna Eaitlie. 



"Sister, sweet Sister! let me weep awhile ! 

Bear with me — give the sudden passion way! 
Thoughts of our own lost home, our sunny isle. 

Come, as a wind that o'er a reed hath sway ; 
Till my heart dies with yearnings and sick fears; — 
Oh ! could my life melt from me in these tears ! 

" Our father's voice, our mother's gentle eye. 
Our brother's bounding step— where are they, 
where? 

Desolate, desolate our chambers lie ! 
— How hast tliou won thy spirit from despair? 

O'er mzMe swift shadows, gusts of terror, sweep; — 

I sink away— bear with me — let me weep I" 

" Yes ! weep, my Sister ! weep, till from thy heart 
The weight flow forth in tears; yet sink thou 
not! 

I bind my sorrow to a lofty part. 
For thee, my gentle one ! our orphan lot 

To meet in quenchless trust ; my soul is strong — 

Thou, too, wilt rise in holy might ere long. 

" A breath of our free heavens and noble sires, 
A memory of our old victorious, dead, — 

These mantle me with power ! and though their 
fires 
In a frail censer briefly may be shed. 

Yet shall they light us onward, side by side ; — 

Have the wild birds, and have not we, a guide ? 

" Cheer, then, beloved ! on whose meek brow is set 
Our mother's image — in whose voice a tone, 

A faint sweet sound of hers is lingering yet. 
An echo of our childhood's music gone ; — 

Cheer thee ! thy Sister's heart and faith are high ; 

Our path is one— viith thee I live and die !" 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



279 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 



The celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo del Car- 
pio, having made many inefftctual efforts to procure the 
release of his fatlier, the Count Saldana, who had been 
imprisoned by King Alfonso of Asturias, almost from the 
time of Bernardo's birth, at lasttoolc up arms in despair. 
The war which he maintained proved so destructive, that 
the men of the land gathered round the King, and 
united in demanding Saldana's liberty. Alfonso, accord- 
ingly, offered Bernardo immediate possession of his 
father's person, in exchange for his castle of Carpio. 
Bernardo, without hesitation, gave up his strong hold, 
with all his captives ; and being assured that his father 
was then on his way from prison, rode forth with the King 
to meet him. ■ "And when he saw his father approach- 
ing, heexxlaimed," says the ancient chronicle, '" Oh, 
God ! is the Count of Saldana indeed coming V~' Look 
where he is,' replied the cruel King, 'and now go and 
greet him whom you have so long desired to see.' " 
The remainder of the story will be found related in the 
ballad. The chronicles and romances leave us nearly 
in the dark as to Bernardo's history after this event. 



The warrior bow'd liis crested head, and tamed 

his heart of fire. 
And sued the haughty king to free his long-impri- 

son'd sire ; 
"I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my 

captive train, 
I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord !— oh, break 

my father's chain !" 

' Rise, rise ! even now, thy father comes, a ran- 

som'd man this day ; 
Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet 

him on his way." 
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on 

his steed, 
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's 

foamy speed. 

And lo ! from far, as on they press'd, there came a 

glittering band, 
With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader 

in the land ; 
" Now haste, Bernardo, haste ! for there, in very 

truth, is he, 
The father whom thy faithful heart liath yearn'd 

so long to see." 

His dark eye flash'd, his proud breast heaved, his 
cheek's blood came and went ; 

He reach'd that gray-hair'd chieftain's side, and 
there, dismounting, bent ; 

A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand 
lie took, — 

What was there in its touch that all his fiery spi- 
rit shook ? 

That hand was cold — a frozen thing— it dropp'd 

from his like lead, — 
He look'd up to the face above— the face was of 

the dead ! 
A plume waved o'er the noble brow — the brow was 

fi.x'd and white ; — 
He met at last his father's eyes— but in them was 

no sight ! 

Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but who 

could paint that gaze ? 
They hush'd their very hearts, that saw its horror 

and amaze ; 
They might liave chain'd him, as before that stony 

form he stood. 
For the power was stricken from his arm, and 

from his lip the blood. 

"Father!" at length he murmur'd low— and wept 

like childhood then, — 
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of 

warlike men ! — 



He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his 

young renown,— 
He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust 

sate down. 

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his 

darkly mournful brow, 
" No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift the 

sword for now. — 
My king is false, my hope betray'd, my Father— 

oh ! the worth, 
The glory, and the loveliness, are pass'd away 

from earth ! 

" I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire ! 

beside thee yet, 
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's 

free soil had met, — 
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then,— for 

thee my fields were won, — 
And thou hast perish'd in thy chains, as tliough 

thou liadst no son !" 

Then, starting from the ground once more, he 
seized the monarch's rein, 

Amidst the pale and wilder'd looks of aU the cour- 
tier train ; 

And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing 
war-horse led, 

And sternly set them face to face,— the king before 
the dead !— 

" Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's 
hand to kiss ?— 

Be still, and gaze thou on, false king ! and tell me 
what is this 1 

The voice, the glance, the heart I sought — give an- 
swer, wiie4'e are they ? — 

If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life 
through this cold clay ! 

" Into these glassy eyes put light, — be still ! keep 
down thine ire, — 

Bid these white lips a blessing speak— this earth is 
not my sire ! 

Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my 
blood was shed, — 

Thou canst not— and a king?— His dust be moun- 
tains on thy head !" 

He loosed the steed ; his slack hand fell, — upon the 
silent face 

He cast one long, deep, troubled look, — then turn'd 
from that sad place : 

His hope was crush'd, his after-fate untold in mar- 
tial strain, — 

His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills 
of Spain. 



THE TOMB OF MADAME LANGHANS.* 



To a mysteriously consorted pair 
This place is consecrate ; to death and life, 
And to the best affections that proceed 
From this conjunction. 

Wordsworth. 



How many hopes were borne upon thy bier, 
O bride of stricken love ! in anguish hither ! 
Like flowers, the first and fairest of the year, 
Pluck'd on the bosom of the dead to wither ; 
Hopes, from their source all holy, though of earth. 
All brightly gathering round affection's hearth. 

Of mingled prayer they told ; of Sabbath hours ; 
Of morn's farewell, and evening's blessed meeting ; 
Of childhood's voice, amidst the household bowers ; 
And bounding step, and smile of joyous greeting ; — 
But thou, young mother ! to thy gentle heart 
Didst take thy babe, and meekly so depart. 



* At Hindetbanlt, near Eerne, she is represented as bursting from 
the sepulchre, with her infant in Iter arms, at the sound of the last 
trumpet. An inscription on the tomb concludes thus:— ^'■Here ami, 
God ! with the child whom thou bast given me." 



280 



HEMAJVS' POEMS. 



How many hopes have sprung in radiance hence ! 
Their trace yet lights the dust where thou art 

sleeping ! 
A solemn joy comes o'er me, and a sense 
Of triumph, blent with nature's gush of weeping, 
As, kindling up the silent stone, I see 
The glorious vision, caught by faith, of thee. 

Slumberer ! love calls thee, for the night is past ; 
Put on the immortal beauty of tliy waking ! 
Captive ! and hear'st thou not the trumpet's blast. 
The long, victorious note, thy bondage breaking? 
Thou hear'st, thou answer's!, " God of earth and 

Heaven ! 
Here am I, with the child whom thou hast given !" 



THE EXILE'S DIRGE. 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
Nor the furious Winter's rages, 

Thou thy worldly tast hast done, 

Hoi^ie art gone, and ta'en thy wages. 

Cyrnhdine. 

I attended a funeral where there were a number of the 
German settlers present. After I had performed such 
service as is usual on similar occasions, a most vene- 
rable-looking old man came forward, and asked me if I 
were wdling that they should perform some of their pe- 
culiar rites. He opened a very ancient version of Lu- 
ther's Hymns, and they all began to sing, in German, so 
loud that the woods echoed the strain. There was some- 
thing affecting in the singing of these ancient people, 
carrying one of their brethren to his last home, and 
using the language and rites which they had brought 
with them over the sea from the Vatcrland, a word 
which often occurred in this hymn. It was a long, slow, 
and mournful air, which they sung as they bore the 
body along ; the words " mein Gott" "mein Bruder" 
and " Vatcrland," died away in distant echoes amongst 
the woods. I shall long remember that funeral hymn. — 
Flint' s Recollections of the Valley of the Mississippi. 

There we^t a dirge through the forest's gloom. 
— An exile was borne to a lonely tomb. 

" Brother I" (so the chant was sung 
In the slumberer's native tongue,) 
" Friend and brother ! not for thee 
Shall the sound of weeping be: — 
Long the Exile's woe hath lain 
On thy life a withering chain ; 
Music from thine own blue streams, 
Wander'd through thy fever-dreams ; 
Voices from thy country's vines. 
Met thee 'midst the alien pines. 
And thy true heart died away ; 
And thy spirit would not stay." 

So swell'd the chant ; and the deep wind's moan 
Seem'd through the cedars to murmur—" Ooiie .'" 

" Brother ! by the rolling Khine, 
Stands the home that once was thine— 
Brother 1 now thy dwelling lies 
Where the Indian arrow flies ! 
He that blest thine infant head. 
Fills a distant greensward bed ; 
She that heard thy lisping prayer, 
Slumbers low beside him there ; 
They that earliest with thee play'd. 
Rest beneath their own oak shade, 
Far, far hence !— yet sea nor shore 
Haply, brother I part ye more ; 
God hath call'd thee to that band 
In the immortal Fatherland !" 

" The Fatherland /"—with that sweet word 
A hurst of tears 'midst the strain was lieard. 

" Brother ! were we there with thee 
Rich would many a meeting be ! 
Many a broken garland bound. 
Many a mourn'd' and lost one found ! 



But our task is still to bear, 
Still to breathe in changeful air; 
Loved and bright things to resign. 
As even now this dust of thine ; 
Yet to hope I— to hope in Heaven, 
T^hough flowers fall, and ties be riven- 
Yet to pray ! and wait the hand 
Beckoning to the Fatherland I" 

And the requiem died in the forest's gloom ;- 
They had reach'd the E.\ile's lonely tomb. 



THE DREAMING CHILD. 



Alas! what kind of grief should thy years know? 
Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be 
When no breath troubles them. 

Btaumont and FMchsr. 



And is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy ? 
What should the cloud be made of? — blessed child ! 
Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy. 
All day hath ranged through sunshine, clear, yet 
mild : 

And now thou tremblest ! — wherefore ? — in thy soul 
There lies no past, no future.— Thou hast heard 
No sound of presage from the distance roll, 
Thy heart bears traces of no arrowy word. 

From thee no love hath gone ; thy mind's young 

eye 
Hath look'd not into Death's, and thence Tjecome 
A questioner of mute Eternity, 
A weary searcher for a viewless home : 

Nor hath thy sense been quicken'd unto pain. 
By feverish watching for some step beloved ; 
Free are thy thoughts, an ever-changeful train. 
Glancing like dewdrops, and as lightly moved. 

Yet now, on billows of strange passion toss'd. 
How art thou wilder'd in the cave of sleep I 
My gentle child I 'midst what dim phantoms lost, 
Thus in mysterious anguish dost thou weep ? 

Awake ! they sadden me — those early tears. 
First gushings of the strong dark river's flow. 
That must o'ersweep thy soul with coming years, 
Th' unfathomable flood of human woe I 

Awful to watch, ev'n rolling through a dream. 
Forcing wild spray-drops but from childhood's eyes ! 
Wake,"wake I as yet thy life's transparent stream 
Should wear the tinge of none but summer skies. 

Come from the shadow of those realms unknown. 
Where now thy thoughts dismay'd and darkling 

rove ; 
Come to the kindly region all thine own. 
The home, still bright for thee with guardian love. 

Happy, fair child I that yet a mother's voice 
Can win thee, back from visionary strife ! — 
Oh ! shall my soul, thus waken'd to rejoice. 
Start from the dreamlike wilderness of life ? 



THE CHARMED PICTURE. 



Oh ! that those lips had language ! — Life hath pass^ 
With me but roughly since I saw thee last. 

Thine eyes are charm'd— thine earnest eyes— 

Thou image of the dead ! 
A spell within their sweetness lies, 

A virtue thence is shed. 

Oft in their meek blue light enshrined, 

A blessing seems to be. 
And sometimes there my wayward mind 

A still reproach can see 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



281 



And sometimes Pity— soft and deep, 

And quivering through a tear; 
Even as if Love in Heaven could weep, 

For Grief left drooping here. 

And oh ! my spirit needs that balm, 

Needs it 'midst iitful mirth ; 
And in the night-hour's haunted calm, 

And by the lonely hearth. 

Look on me thus, when hollow praise 

Hath made the weary pine 
For one true tone of other days. 

One glance of love like thine ! 

Look on me thus, when sudden glee 

Bears my quick heart along, 
On wings that struggle to be frQe, 

As bursts of skylark song. 

In vain, in vain ! — too soon are felt 

The wounds they cannot flee ; 
Better in childlike tears to melt, 

Pouring my soul on thee ! 

Sweet face, that o'er my childhood shone, 

Whence is thy power of change. 
Thus ever shadowing back my own, 

The rapid and the strange ? 

Whence are they charm'd — those earnest eyes ? 

— I know the mystery well ! 
In mine own trembling bosom lies 

The spirit of the spell ! 

Of Memory, Conscience, Love, 't is born — 

Oh ! change no longer, thou ! 
For ever be the blessing worn 

On thy pure thoughtful brow ! 



PARTING WORDS 



One struggle more, and I am free.^^ — Byron. 



Leave me, oh ! leave me ! — unto all below 
Thy presence binds me with too deep a spell ; 
Thou makest those mortal regions, whence I go. 
Too mighty in their loveliness — farewell, 
That I may part in peace ! 

Leave me ! — thy footstep, with its lightest sound, 
The very shadow of thy waving hair. 
Wakes in my soul a feeling too profound. 
Too strong for aught that loves and dies, to bear — 
Oh ! bid the conflict cease ! 

I hear thy whisper — and the warm tears gush 
Into mine eyes, the quick pulse thrills my heart ; 
Thou bid'st the peace, the reverential hush. 
The still submission, from my thoughts depart ; 
Dear one ! this must not be. 

The past looks on me from thy mournful eye. 
The beauty of our free and vernal days ; 
Our communings with sea, and hill, and sky— 
Oh ! take that bright world from my spirit's gaze ! 
Thou art all earth to me ! 

Shut out the sunshine from my dying room. 
The jasmine's breath, the murmur of the bee ; 
Let not the joy of bird-notes pierce the gloom ! 
They speak of love, of summer, and of thee. 

Too much — and death is here ! 

Doth our own spring make happy music now, 
From the old beech-roots flashing into day ? 
Are the pure lilies imaged in its flovi' ? 
Alas I vain thoughts ! that fondly thus can stray 
From the dread hour so near ! 

If I could but draw courage from the light 
Of thy clear eye, that ever shone to bless ! 
— Not now ! 't will not be now ! — my aching sight 
Drinks from that fount a flood of tenderness, 
Bearing all strength away ! 

36 



Leave me !— thou com'st between my heart and 

Heaven ! 
I would be still, in voiceless prayer to die ! 
—Why must our souls thus love, and then be riven? 
—Return ! thy parting wakes mine agony ! 
— Oh, yet awhile delay ! 



THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD.* 

Thou'rt passing hence, my brother ! 

Oh ! my earliest friend, farewell ! 
Thou'rt leaving me, without thy voice, 

In a lonely home to dwell ; 
And from the hills, and from the hearth, 

And from the household-tree. 
With thee departs the lingering mirth, 

The brightness goes with tliee. 

But thou, my friend, my brother I 

Thou'rt speeding to the shore 
Where the dirge-like tone of parting words 

Shall smite the soul no more ! 
And thou vi'ilt see our holy dead, 

The lost on earth and main ; 
Into the sheaf of kindred hearts, 

Thou wilt be bound again ! 

Tell, then, our friend of boyhood, 

That yet his name is heard 
On the blue mountains, whence his youth 

Pass'd like a swift bright bird. 
The light of his exulting brow. 

The vision of his glee. 
Are on me still— Oh ! still I trust 

That smile again to see. 

And tell our fair young sister. 

The rose cut down m spring. 
That yet my gushing soul is fiU'd 

With lays she loved to sing. 
Her soft, deep eyes look through my dreams 

Tender and sadly sweet ; — 
Tell her my heart within me burns 

Once more that gaze to meet ! 

And tell our white-hair"d father. 

That in the paths he trode. 
The child he loved, the last on earth, 

Yet walks and worships God. 
Say, that his last fond blessing yet 

Rests on my soul like dew, 
And by its hallowing might I trust 

Once more his face to view. 

And tell our gentle mother. 

That on her grave I pour 
The sorrows of my spirit forth. 

As on her breast of yore. 
Happy thou art that soon, how soon. 

Our good and bright will see ! — 
Oh! brother, brother! may I dwell. 

Ere long, with them and thee ! 



THE TWO HOMES. 



Oh ! if the soul immortal be, 
Is not its love immortal too ? 



Seest thou my home ?— 't is where yon woods are 

waving, 
In their dark richness, to the summer air; 
Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks 

laving, 
Leads down the hills a vein of light,— 't is there ! 



* "Messages from the living to the dead are 
the Highlands. The Gael have such a ceaseless consciousness of 
immortality, that their departed friends arc considered as merely ab- 
sent for a time, and permitted to relieve the hours of separation by 
occasional intercourse with the ohjects of their earliest affections." 
See the Notes to Mrs. Brunton's Works. 



282 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



'Midst those green wilds how many a fount lies 

glearaiiiK, 
Fringed with the violet, colour'd with the skies ! 
My boyhood's haunt, through days of summer 

dreaming, 
Under young leaves that shook with melodies. 

My home ! the spirit of its love is breathing 
In every wind that plays across my track ; 
From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing, 
Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back. 

There am I loved — there pray'd for — there my mo- 
ther 
Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye ; 
There my young sisters watch to greet their brother 
— Soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly. 

There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending, 
All the home-voices meet at day's decline ; 
One are those tones, as from one heart ascending, — 
There laughs jay home— sad stranger ! where is 
thine ? 

Ask'st thou of mine 7 — In solemn peace 'tis lying, 
Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away ; 
'Tis where /, too, am loved with love undying, 
And fond hearts wait my step — But where are 
they? 

Ask where the earth's departed liave their dwell- 
in" ; 
Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air ! 
1 know it not, yet trust the whisper, telling 
My lonely heart, that love unchanged is there. 

And what is home, and where, but with the loving ? 
Happy thou art, that so canst gaze on thine ! 
My spirit feels but, in its weary roving, 
That with the dead, where'er they be, is mine. 

Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother ! 
Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene ! 
For me, too, watch the sister and the mother, 
I well believe— but dark seas roll between. 



THE SOLDIER'S DEATH -BED. 



Wieherrlich die Sonne dort untergeht ! daich noch einBubewar 
— war's mein Lieblingsgedanke, wie sie zu leben, wie sie zu sterben ! 
Vie Rauber. 



Like thee to die, thou sun!— My boyhood's dream 

Was this; and now my spirit, with thy beam. 

Ebbs from a field of victory !— yet the hour 

Bears back upon me, with a torrent's power. 

Nature's deep longings :— Oh ! for some kind eye. 

Wherein to meet love's fervent farewell gaze ; 

Some breast to pillow life's last agony. 

Some voice, to speak oif hope and brighter days. 

Beyond the pass of shadows !— But I go, 

1, that have been so loved, go hence alone ; 

And ye, now gathering round my own hearth's 

glow, 
Sweet friends ! it may be that a softer tone. 
Even in this moment, with your laughing glee. 
Mingles its cadence while you speak of me: 
Of me, your soldier, 'midst the mountains lying. 
On the red banner of his battles dying, 
Far, far away!— and oh! your parting prayer- 
Will not his name be fondly murmur'd there ? 
It will !— A blessing on that holy hearth ! 
Though clouds are darkening to o'ercast its mirth. 
Mother ! I may not hear thy voice again ; 
Sisters ! ye watch to greet my step in vain ; 
Young brother, fare thee well !— on each dear head 
Blessing and love a thousandfold be shed, 
My soul's last earthly breathings !— May your home 
Smile for you ever ! — May no winter come. 
No world, between your hearts ! — May even your 

tears. 
For my sake, full of long-remember'd years, 



Cluicken the true affections that entwine 
Your lives in one bright bond! — I may not sleep 
Amidst our fathers, where those tears might shine 
Over my slumbers : yet your love will keep 
My memory living in the ancestral halls. 
Where shame hath never trod;— the dark night 

falls, 
And I depart. — The brave are gone to rest. 
The brothers of my combats, on the breast 
Of the red field they reap'd : — their work is done — 
Thou, too, art set! — farewell, farewell, thou sun? 
The last lone watcher of the bloody sod. 
Offers a trusting spirit up to God. 



THE IMAGE IN THE HEART. 

xo * * * * 

True, indeed, it is. 
That fliey whom death has hidden from our sight, 
Are worthiest of the mind's regard ; with them 
The future cannot contradict the past — 
Mortality's last exercise and proof 
Is undergone. Wordsworth, 



The love where death baa set his se 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal. 
Nor falsehood disavow. 



Byron. 



I CALL thee blest ! — though now the voice be fled. 
Which, to thy soul, brought day-spring with its 

tone. 
And o'er the gentle eyes though dust be spread. 
Eyes that ne'er look'd on thine but light was 

thrown 

Far through thy breast . 

And though the music of thy life be broken, 
Or changed in every chord, since he is gone. 
Feeling all this, even yet, by many-a token, 
O thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone ! 
I call thee blest ! 

For in thy heart there is a holy spot. 
As 'raid the waste an Isle of fount and palm. 
For ever green ! — the world's breath enters not, 
The passion-tempests may not break its calm; 
'Tis thine, all thine ! 

Thither, in trust unbaffled, may'st thou turn. 
From bitter words, cold greetings, heartless eyes, 
Ouenching thy soul's thirst at the hidden urn. 
That, fiU'd with waters of sweet memory, lies 
In its own shrine. 

Tliou hast thy home ! — there is no power in change 
To reach that temple of the past ; — no sway. 
In all time brings of sudden, dark, or strange, 
To sweep the still transparent peace away 
From its liush'd air! 

And oh ! that glorious image of the dead ! 
Sole thing whereon a deathless love may rest. 
And in deep faith and dreamy worship shed 
Its high gifts fearlessly !— I call thee blest, 
If only there! 

Blest, for the beautiful within thee dwelling. 
Never to fade !— a refuge from distrust, 
A spring of purer life, still freshly welling, 
To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust 
With flowers divine. 

And thou hast been beloved !— it is no dream, 
No false mirage for thee, the fervent love. 
The rainbow still unreach'd, the ideal gleam, 
That ever seems before, beyond, above. 
Far off to shine. 

But thou, from all the daughters of the earth 
Singled and mark'd, hast !cnown its home and place; 
And the high memory of its holy worth. 
To this our life a glory and a grace 
For thee hath given. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



283 



And art thou not still fondly, truly loved ? 
Tliou art ! — the love his spirit bore away, 
Was not for death !— a treasure but removed, 
A bright bird parted for a clearer day, — 
Thine still in Heaven ! 



WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE. 



Strons 
By an 



Where hath not woman stood, 
in attection's might ? a reed upborne 
>'erinasterin5 current ! 



Gentle and lovely form, 

What didst thou here, 
When the fierce battle-storm 

Boredown the spear ? 

Banner and shiver'd crest, 

Beside thee strown. 
Tell, that amidst the best, 

Thy work was done I 

Yet strangely, sadly fair. 

O'er the wild scene. 
Gleams, through its golden hair. 

That brow serene. 

Low lies the stately head, — 

Earth-bound the free; 
How gave those haughty dead 

A place to thee? 

Slumberer ! thine early bier 
Friends should have crown'd. 

Many a flower and tear 
Shedding around. 

Soft voices, clear and young, 

Mingling their swell. 
Should o'er thy dust liave sung 

Earth's last farewell. 

Sisters, above the grave 

Of thy repose. 
Should have bid violets wave 

With the white rose. 

Now must the trumpet's note. 

Savage and shrill, 
For requiem o'er thee float. 

Thou fair and still ! 

And the swift charger sweep, 

In full career, 
Trampling thy place of sleep, — 

Why camest thou here ? 

Why?— ask the true heart why 

Woman hath been 
Ever, where brave men die. 

Unshrinking seen ? 

Unto this harvest ground 
Proud reapers came, — 

Some, for that stirring sound, 
A warrior's name ; 

Some, for the stormy play 

And joy of strife ; 
And some, to fling away 

A weary life; — 

But thou, pale sleeper, thou. 
With the slight frame. 

And the rich locks, whose glow 
Death cannot tame ; 

Only one thought, one power, 

Thee could have led. 
So, through the tempest's hour, 

To lift thy head! 

Only the true, the strong. 

The love, whose trust 
Woman's deep soul too long 

Pours on the dust! 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 



And dreams, in their developement, have breath, 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
They make us what we were not— what they will, 
And shalte us with the vision that 's gone by. 

Spirit-Land! thou land of dreams ! 
A world thou art of mysterious gleams. 
Of startling voices, and sounds at strife, — 
A world of the dead in the hues of life. 

Like a wizard's magic glass thou art, 
When the wavy shadows float by, and part : 
Visions of aspects, now loved, now strange. 
Glimmering and mingling in ceaseless change. 

Thou art like a city of the past. 
With its gorgeous halls into fragments cast, 
Amidst whose ruins there glide and play 
Familiar forms of the world's to-day. 

Thou art like the depths where the seas have birth, 
Rich with the wealth that is lost from earth,— 
All the sere flowers of our days gone by. 
And the buried gems in thy bosom lie. 

Yes ! thou art like those dim sea-caves, 

A realm of treasures, a realm of graves ! 

And the shapes through thy mysteries that come 

and go. 
Are of beauty and terror, of power and woe. 

But for me, O thou picture-land of sleep ! 
Thou art all one world of aft'ections deep, — 
And wrung from my heart is each flushing dye. 
That sweeps o'er thy chambers of imagery. 

And thy bowers are fair— even as Eden fair ; 
All the beloved of my soul are there ! 
The forms my spirit most pines to see. 
The eyes, wliose love hath been life to me : 

They are there,— and each blessed voice I hear. 
Kindly, and joyous, and silvery clear ; 
But under-tones are in each, that say, — 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt away !" 

1 walk with sweet friends in the sunset's glow ; 
I listen to music of long ago ; 

But one thought, like an omen, breathes faint 

through the lay, — 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt away!" 

I sit by the hearth of my early days ; 
All the home-faces are met by the blaze, — 
And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet say 
" It is but a dream; it will melt away !" 

And away, like a flower's passing breath, 'tis gone. 
And I wake more sadly, more deeply lone ! 
Oh ! a haunted heart is a weight to bear,— 
Bright faces, kind voices! where are ye, where? 

Shadow not forth, O thou land of dreams. 

The past, as it fled by my own blue streams ! 

Make not my spirit within me burn 

For the scenes and the hours that may ne'er return ! 

Call out from the future thy visions bright. 
From the world o'er the grave, take thy solemn 

light. 
And oh ! with the loved, whom no more I see, 
Show me my home, as it yet may be ! 

As it yet may be in some purer sphere. 

No cloud, no parting, no sleepless fear ; 

So my soul may bear on through the long, long day,. 

Till i go where the beautiful melts not away ! 



284 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 



Gloom is upon thy silent hearth, 

silent house ! once fill'd with mirth ; 
Sorrow is in the breezy sound 

Of thy tall poplars whispering round. 

The shadow of departed hours 
Hangs dim upon thy early flowers ; 
Even in thy sunshine seems to brood 
Something more deep than solitude. 

Fair art thou, fair to a stranger's gaze, 
Mine own sweet home of other days ! 
My children's birth-place ! yet for me, 
It is too much to look on thee. 

Too much ! for all about thee spread, 

1 feel the memory of the dead. 
And almost linger for the feet 
That never more my step shall meet. 

The looks, the smiles, all vanish'd now, 
Follow me where thy roses blow ; 
The echoes of kind household-words 
Are with me 'midst thy singing birds. 

Till my heart dies, it dies away 
In yearnings for what might not stay ; 
For love which ne'er deceived my trust. 
For all which went with "dust to dust!" 

What now is left me, but to raise 
From thee, lorn spot ! my spirit's gaze. 
To lift through tears, my straining eye 
Up to my Father's house on high ? 

Oh! many are the mansions there, =*= 
But not in one hath grief a share ! 
No haunting shade from things gone by, 
May there o'ersweep the unchanging sky. 

And thuy are there, whose long-loved mien 
In earthly home no more is seen ; 
Whose places, where they smiling sate, 
Are left unto us desolate. 

We miss them when the board is spread ; 
We miss them when the prayer is said ; 
Upon our dreams their dying eyes 
In still and mournful fondness rise. 

But they are where these longings vain 
Trouble no more the heart and brain ; 
The sadness of this aching love 
Dims not our Father's house above. 

Ye are at rest, and I in tears,t 
Ye dwellers of immortal spheres 1 
Under the poplar boughs I stand. 
And mourn the broken household band. 

But by your life of lowly faith. 
And by your joyful hope in death. 
Guide me, till on some brighter shore. 
The sever'd wreath is bound once more ! 

Holy ye were, and good, and true! 
No change can cloud my thoughts of you ; 
Guide me like you to live and die, 
And reach my Father's house on high ! 



THE STRANGER'S HEART. 



The stranger's heart ! Oh ! wound it not ! 
A yearning anguish is its lot ; 
In the green shadow of thy tree. 
The stranger finds no rest with thee. 

* Id my Father's house there are many mansions.-Zo/m, chap. xiv. 
t From an ancient Hebrew dirge: 

" Mourn for the mourner, and not for the dead ; 
For he is at rest, and we in tears !" 



Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves 
Glad music round thy household eaves ; 
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone — 
The stranger's heart is with his own. 

Thou think'st thy children's laughing play 
A lovely sight at fall of day ; — 
Then are the stranger's thoughts oppress'd — 
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast. 

Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend 
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend; 
Then doth the stranger's eye. grow dim — 
Far, far are those who pray'd with him. 

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land — 
The voices of thy kindred band — 
Oh ! 'midst them all when blest thou art, 
Deal gently with the stranger's heart ! 



COME HOME! 

Come home ! — there is a sorrowing breath 

In music since ye went, 
And the early flower-scents wander by, 

Witli mournful memories blent. 
The tones in every household voice 

Are grown more sad and deep. 
And the sweet word — brother — wakes a wish 

To turn aside and weep. 

O ye Beloved ! come home ; — the hour 

Of many a greeting tone, 
The time of hearth-light and of song, ' 

Returns— and ye are gone ! 
And darkly, heavily it falls 

On the forsaken room. 
Burdening the heart with tenderness, 

That deepens 'midst the gloom. 

Where finds it you, ye wandering ones? 

With all your boyhood's glee 
Untamed, beneath the desert's palm, 

Or on the lone mid-sea? 
By stormy hills of battles old? 

Or where dark rivers foam? 
— Oh! life is dim where ye are not — 

Back, ye beloved, come home ! 

Come with the leaves and winds of spring, 

And swift birds, o'er the main ! 
Our love is grown too sorrowful — 

Bring us its youth aga'in ! 
Bring the glad tones to music back ! 

Still, still your home is fair, 
The spirit of your sunny life 

Alone is wanting there ! 



THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION. 



" JmyiTora paceP'^ 

One draught, kind Fairy ! from that fountain deep. 
To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast, 
And lone affections, which are griefs, to steep 
In the cool honey-dews of dreamless rest; 
And from the soul the lightning-marks to lave— 
One draught of that sweet wave ! 

Yet, mortal, pause! — within thy mind is laid 
Wealth, gather'd long and slowly ; thoughts divine 
Heap that full treasure-house ; and thou hast made 
The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine ; 
— Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear 
A pyramid so fair ? 



* Quoted from a letter of Lord Byron's. He describes the im- 
pression produced upon him by some tombs at Bologna, bearing 
this simple inscription, and adds, "WTien I die, I could wish that 
some friend would see these words, and no other, placed above my 
grave. — ^^Jmplora jjoce." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



285 



Pour from the fount ! and let the draught efface 
All the vain lore by memory's pride amass'd, 
So it but sweep along the torrent's trace, 
And fill the hollow channels of the past ; 
And from the bosom's inmost folded leaf, 
Rase the one master-grief! 

Yet pause once more !— all, all thy soul hath 

known, 
Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade ! 
Is there no voice whose kind awakening tone 
A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made ? 
No eye whose glance thy day-dreams would recall ? 
—Think— wouldst thou part with all 1 

Fill with forgetfulness !— there are, there are 
Voices whose music I have loved too well ; 
Eyes of deep gentleness — but they are far — 
Never ! oh— never, in my home to dwell ! 
Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul- 
Fill high th' oblivious bowl ! 

Yet pause again ! — with memory wilt thou cast 
The undying hope away, of memory born ? 
Hope of reunion, heart to heart at last. 
No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn ? 
Wouldst thou erase all records of delight 

That make such visions bright ? 

Fill with forgetfulness, fill high !— yet stay — 
— 'Tis from the past we shadow forth the land 
Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way, 
And the soul's friends be vvreath'd in one bright 

band: 
— Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill, 
I must remember still. 

For their sake, for the dead— whose image naught 
May dim within the temple of ray breast — 
For their love's sake, which now no earthly thought 
May shake or trouble with its own unrest, 
Though the past haunt me as a spirit,— yet 
I ask not to forget. 



|l$isttllaiie0ii.0 lioews. 



THE BRIDAL DAY. 



On a monument in a Venetian church is an epitaph, 
recording that the remains beneath are those of a noble 
lady, who expired suddenly while standing as a bride at 
the altar. 



We bear her borne ! we bear her home ! 
Over the murmuring salt sea's foam ; 
One who has fled from the war of life, 
From sorrow, pain, and the fever strife. 

Barry CornwalL 



Bride! upon thy marriage-day. 
When thy gems in rich array 
Made the glistening mirror seem 
As a star-reflecting stream ; 
When the clustering pearls lay fair 
'Midst thy braids of sunny hair, 
And the white veil o'er thee streaming, 
Like a silvery halo gleaming, 
Mellow'd all that pomp and light 
Into something meekly bright ; 
Did the fluttering of thy breath 
Speak of joy or woe beneath? 
And the hue that went and came 
O'er thy cheek, like wavering flame, 
Flow'd that crimson from th' unrest, 
Or the gladness of thy breast? 
— Who shall tell us ?— from thy bower, 
Brightly didst thon pass that hour ; 
With the many-glancing oar. 
And the cheer along the shore. 
And the wealth of summer flowers 
On thy fair head cast in showers. 
And the breath of song and flute, 
And the clarion's glad salute. 



Swiftly o'er the Adrian tide 

Wert thou borne in pomp, young bride ! 

Mirth and music, sun and sky. 

Welcomed thee triumphantly ! 

Yet, perchance, a chastening thought, 

In some deeper spirit wrought, 

Whispering, as untold it blent 

With the sovmds of merriment, — 

" From the liorae of childhood's glee, 

From the days of laughter free, 

From the love of many years. 

Thou art gone to cares and fears ; 

To another path and guide. 

To a bosom yet untried ! 

Bright one ! oh ! there well may be 

Trembling 'midst our joy for thee." 

Bride ! when through the stately fane, 

Circled with thy nuptial train, 

'Midst the banners hung on iiigli 

By thy warrior-ancestry, 

'Midst those mighty fathers dead, 

In soft beauty thou wast led ; 

When before the shrine thy form 

dui ver'd to some bosom storm. 

When, like harp-strings with a sigli 

Breaking in mid-harmony. 

On thy lip the murmurs low 

l)ied with love's uiifinish'd vow ; 

When, like scatter'd rose-leaves, fled 

From thy cheek each tint of red, 

And the light forsook thine eye, 

And thy head sank heavily ; 

Was that drooping hut th' excess 

Of thy spirit's blessedness ? 

Or did some deep feeling's might, 

Folded in thy heart from sight. 

With a sudden tempest-shower. 

Earthward bear thy life's young flower ? 

—Who shall tell us ?— on thy tongue 

Silence, and for ever, hung ! 

Never to thy lip and cheek 

Rush'd again the crimson streak. 

Never to thine eye return'd 

That which there had beam'd and burn'd ! 

With the secret none might know, 

With thy rapture or thy woe. 

With thy marriage-robe and wreath, 

Thou wert fled, young bride of death ! 

One, one lightning moment there 

Struck down triumph to despair. 

Beauty, splendour, hope, and trust. 

Into darkness— terror— dust ! 

There were so\,inds of weeping o'er thee, 

Bride ! as forth thy kindred bore thee, 

Shrouded in thy gleaming veil. 

Deaf to that wild funeral wail. 

Yet perchance a chastening thought. 

In some deeper spirit wrought. 

Whispering, while the stern sad knell 

On the air's bright stillness fell ; 

— " From the power of chill and change 

Souls to sever and estrange ; 

From love's wane — a death in life 

But to watch— a mortal strife ; 

From the secret fevers known 

To the burning heart alone. 

Thou art fled— afar, away— 

Where these blights no more have sway ! 

Bright one ! oh !" there well may be 

Comfort 'midst our tears for thee !" 



THE ANCESTRAL SONG. 

A long war disturb'd your mind — 
Here your perfect peace is signM ; 
'T is now full tide 'twixt night and day, 
End your moanj and come away ! 

JVcbstcr—Duchess of Malfy. 

There were faint sounds of weeping;— fear and 

gloom 
And rriidniglit vigil in a stately room 



286 



HEMAJ^S' POEMS. 



Of Lusignan's old halls:— rich odours there 
Fill'd the proud chamber as with Indian air, 
And soft light fell, from lamps of silver thrown, 
On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone 
Over a gorgeous couch :— there emeralds gleam'd, 
And deeper crimson from the ruby stream'd 
Than in the heart-leaf of the rose is set. 
Hiding from sunshine.— Many a carcanet 
Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain 
Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain, 
And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath 
Whose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death, 
Hung drooping solemnly ;— for there one lay, 
Passing from all Earth's glories fast away. 
Amidst those queenly treasures : They had been 
Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim "lands. 
And for Ms sake, upon their orient sheen 
She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands 
Had press'd them to her languid heart once more. 
Melting in childlike tears. But this was o'er— 
Love's last vain clinging unto life ; and now — 
A mist of dreams wa's hovering o'er her brow, 
Her eye was fix'd, her spirit seeni'd removed. 
Though not from Earth, from all it knew or loved. 
Far, far away ! her handmaids watch'd around. 
In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound 
A might, a mystery ; and the quivering light 
Of wind-sway'd lamps, made spectral in their sight 
The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair. 
Gleaming along the walls with braided hair, 
Long in the dust grown dim ; and she, too, saw, 
But witli the spirit's eye of raptured awe. 
Those pictured shapes !— a bright, yet solemn train, 
Beckoning, they floated o'er her dreamy brain. 
Clothed in diviner hues ; while on her ear 
Strange voices fell, vi'hich none besides might hear. 
Sweet, yet profoundly mournful, as the sigh 
Of winds o'er harp-strings through a midnight sky ; 
And thus it seem'd, in that low "thrilling tone, 
Th' ancestral shadows call'd away their own. 

Come, come, come ! 
Long thy fainting soul hath yearn'd 
For tlie step that ne'er return'd ! 
Long thine anxious ear hath listen'd, 
And thy watchful eye hath glisten'd 
With the hope, whose parting strife 
Shook the flower-leaves from thy life — 
Now the heavy day is done. 
Home awaits thee, wearied one ! 

Come, come, come ! 

From the quenchless thoughts that burn 
In the seal'd heart's lonely urn ; 
From the coil of memory's chain 
Wound about the throbbing brain ; 
From the veins of sorrow deep. 
Winding through the world of sleep ; 
From the haunted halls and bowers, 
Throng'd with ghosts of happier hours ! 
Come, come, come ! 

On our dim and distant shore 

Aching love is felt no more ! 

We have loved with earth's excess — 

Past is now that weariness ! 

JVe have wept, that weep not now — 

Calm is each once beating brow ! 

We have known the dreamer's woes — 

All is now one bright repose ! 

Come, come, come ! 

Weary heart that long hast bled, 
Languid spirit, drooping head, 
Restless memory, vain regret. 
Pining love whose light is set, 
Come away !— 'tis hush'd, 'tis well ! 
Where by shadowy founts we dwell, 
All the fever-thirst is still'd, 
All the air with peace is fill'd, — 
Come, come, come ! 

And with her spirit rapt in that wild lay. 
She pass'd, as twilight melts to night, away ! 



THE MAGIC GLASS. 



How lived, how loved, how died they? 



Byron, 



" The Dead 1 the glorious Dead !— And shall they 

rise ? 
Shall they look on thee with their proud bright 
eyes? 

Thou ask'st a fearful spell ! 
Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall. 
What kingly vision shall obey my call? 

The deep grave knows it well ! 

" Wouldst thou beliold earth's conquerors ? shall 

they pass 
Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass 

With triumph's long array ? 
Speak ! and those dwellers of the marble urn. 
Robed for the feast of victory, shall return. 
As on their proudest day. 

" Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of song ?— 
O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng 

Shall waft a solemn gleam !, 
Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows 
Under the foliage of green laurel-boughs. 

But silent as a dream." 

"Not these, O mighty master !— Though their lays 
Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise, 

Hallow'd for evermore ! 
And not the buried conquerors ! Let them sleep. 
And let the flowery earth her Sabbaths keep 

In joy, from shore to shore ! 

" But, if the narrow house may so be moved, 
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved. 

Back from their couch of rest ! 
That I may learn if their meek eyes be fiU'd 
With peace, if human love hath ever still'd 

The yearning liuman breast." 

"Away, fond youth !— An idle quest is thine ; 
These have no trophy, no memorial shi'ine ; 

I know not of their place ! 
'Midst the dim valleys, with a secretd9ow, 
Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and low, 

Have pass'd, and left no trace. 

" Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills, 
And the wild sounds of melancholy rills. 

Their covering turf may bloom ; 
But ne'er hath Fame made relics of its flowers, — 
Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers. 

Or poet hail'd their tomb." 

"Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell ! 
Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves may tell 

That which I pine to know ! 
I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep, 
Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep. 

Records of joy and woe." 



CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL. 



Les femmes doivent penser qu'il est dans cette carriere bien peu 
de sorte qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vJe d'une femme aimee 
et d'une mere heureuse. Madame de SiaeL 



Daughter of th' Italian heaven ! 
Thou, to whom its fires are given. 
Joyously thy car hath roll'd 
Where the conquerors pass'd of old ; 
And the festal sun, that shone 
O'er three * hundred triumphs gone. 
Makes thy day of glory bright, 
With a shower of golden light. 
Now thou tread'st th' ascending road. 
Freedom's foot so proudly trode; 
While, from tombs of heroes borne, 
From the dust of empire shorn. 



* The trebly hundred triumphs. Syren. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



287 



Flowers upon thy graceful head, 

Chaplets of all hues, are shed, 

In a soft and rosy rain, 

Touch'd with many a gem-like stain. 

Thou hast gain'd the summit now ! 
Music hails thee from below ; — 
Music, whose rich notes might stir 
Ashes of the sepulchre ; 
Shaking with victorious notes 
All the bright air as it floats. 
Well may woman's heart beat high 
Uuto that proud harmony ! 

Now afar it rolls— it dies — 
And thy voice is heard to rise 
With a low and lovely tone 
In its thrilling power alone ; 
And thy lyre's deep silvery string, 
Touch'd as by a breeze's wing. 
Murmurs tremblingly at first. 
Ere the tide of rapture burst. 

All the spirit of thy sky 
Now hath lit thy large dark eye. 
And thy cheek a flush hath caught" 
From the joy of kindled thought ; 
And the burning words of song 
From thy lip flow fast and strong, 
With a rushing stream's deliglit 
In the freedom of its might. 

Radiant daughter of the sun ! 
Now thy living wreath is won. 
Crown'd of Rome ! — Oh ! art thou not 
Happy in that glorious lot ? — 
Happier, happier far than thou. 
With the laurel on thy brow. 
She that makes the humblest hearth 
Lovely but to one on earth ! 



THE RUIN. 

Oh ! 't is the heart that magnifies this life, 
Making a truth and beauty of its own. 

Wordsworth. 
Birth has gladdeu'd it : Death has sanctified it. 

Guesses at Truth. 

No dower of storied song is thine, 

O desolate abode ! 
Forth from thy gates no glittering line 

Of lance and spear hath flow'd. 
Banners of knighthood have not flung 

Proud drapery o'er thy walls. 
Nor bugle-notes to battle rung 

Through thy resounding halls. 

Nor have rich bowers of pleasaunce here 

By courtly hands been dress'd, 
For Princes, from the chase of deer. 

Under green leaves to rest : 
Only some rose, yet lingering bright 

Beside thy casement lone, 
Tells where the spirit of delight 

Hath dwelt, and now is gone. 

Yet minstrel tale of harp and sword, 

And sovereign beauty's lot. 
House of quench'd light and silent board !^ 

For me thou needest not. 
It is enough to know that here, 

Where thoughtfully I stand. 
Sorrow and love, and hope and fear. 

Have link'd one kindred band. 

Thou bindest me with mighty spells ! 

— A solemnizing breath, 
A presence all around thee dwells. 

Of human life and death. 
I need but pluck yon garden flower 

Prom where the wild weeds rise. 
To wake, with strange and sudden power, 

A thousand sympathies. 



Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth ! 

Deserted now by all ! 
Voices at eve here met in mirth, 

Which eve may ne'er recall. 
Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone, 

And childhood's laughing glee, 
And song and prayer,liave all been known 

Hearth of the dead ! to thee. 

Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour'd 

Upon the infant head, 
As if in every fervent word 

The living soul were shed ; 
Thou hast seen partings, such as bear 

The bloom of life away — 
Alas ! for love in changeful air, 

Where naught beloved can stay ! 

Here, by the restless bed of pain. 

The vigil hath been kept, 
Till sunrise, bright withJiope in vain. 

Burst forth on eyes that wept : 
Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom, 

The breathless influence, shed 
Through the dim dwelling, from the room 

Wherein reposed the dead. 

The seat left void, the missing face. 

Have here been mark'd and mourn'd. 
And time hath fiU'd the vacant place. 

And gladness hath return'd ; 
Till from the narrowing household chain 

The links dropp'd one by one ! 
And homewards hither, o'er the main. 

Came the spring-birds alone. 

Is there not cause, then— cause for thought, 

Fix'd eye and lingering tread, 
Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught, 

Ev'n lowliest hearts have bled? 
Where, in its ever-haunting thirst 

For draughts of purer day, 
Man's soul, with fitful strength, hath burst 

The clouds that wrapt its way ? 

Holy to human nature seems 

The long-forsaken spot ; 
To deep affections, tender dreams, 

Hopes of a brighter lot ! 
Therefore in silent reverence here, 

Hearth of the dead! I stand. 
Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear. 

Have link'd one household band. 



THE MINSTER. 

A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined 
Our hopes of immortality. Byron, 

Speak low ! — the place is holy to the breath 
Of awful harmonies, of whisper'd prayer ; 

Tread lightly ! — for the sanctity of death 
Broods with a voiceless influence on the air : 

Stern, yet serene !— a reconciling spell. 

Each troubled billow of the soul to quell. 

Leave me to linger silently awhile ! 

— Not for the light that pours its fervid streams 
Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle. 

Kindling old banners into haughty gleams. 
Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb 
Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom : 

Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing. 
Mighty as forest sounds when winds are high; 

Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing 
Through incense-miststheirsainted pageantry : — 

Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power. 

Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour. 

But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord 
Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound ; 

Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have 
pour'd 
Their anguish forth, are with me and around ; — 



288 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



I look back on the pangs, the burning tears, 
Known to these altars of a thousand years. 

Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse ! 

That here hast bovv'd with ashes on thy head ; 
And thou, still battling with the tempest's force— 

Thou, whose bright spirit through all time has 
bled— 
Speak, wounded Love ! if penance here, or prayer. 
Hath laid one haunting sliadow of despair 7 

No voice, no breath !— of conflicts past, no trace ! 

— Doth not this hush give answer to my quest ? 
Surely the dread religion of the place 

By every grief hath made its might confest ! 
— Oh ! that within my heart I could but keep 
Holy to Heaven, a spot thus pure, and still, and 
deep ! 



THE SONG OF NIGHT. 



night, 



And storm, and darkness ! ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength ! 

£yron. 

I COME to thee, O Earth ! 
With all my gifts ! — for every flower sweet dew, 
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew 

The glory of its birth. 

Not one which glimmering lies 
Par amidst folding hills, or forest leaves, 
But, tlirough its veins of beauty, so receives 

A spirit of fresh dyes. 

I come with every star ; 
Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track. 
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back. 

Mirrors of worlds afar. 

I come with peace ;— I shed 
Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey-bee. 
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young 
glee. 

The hyacinth's meek head. 

On my own heart I lay 
The weary babe ; and sealing with a breath 
Its eyes of love, send faiiy dreams, beneath 

The shadovi'ing lids to play. 

I come with mightier things ! 
Who calls me silent ? I have many tones — 
The dark skies thrill with low, mysterious moans, 

Borne on my sweeping wings. 

I waft them not alone 
From the deep organ of the forest shades. 
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades. 

Till the bright day is done ; 

But in the human breast 
A thousand still small voices I awake, 
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake 

The mantle of its rest. 

I bring- them from the past : 
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn. 
From crush'd affections, which, though long o'er- 
borne. 

Make their tones heard at last. 

I bring them from the tomb : 
O'er tne sad couch of late repentant love 
They pass— though low as murmurs of a dove — 

Like trumpets through the gloom. 

I come with all my train : 
Who calls me lonely ? — Hosts around me tread. 
The intensely bright, the beautiful, — the dead, — 

Phantoms of heart and brain ! 

Looks from departed eyes — 
These are my lightnings !— fiU'd with anguish vain. 
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain, 

They smite with agonies. 



I, that with soft control, 
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, 
I am the avenging one ! the arm'd — the strong, 

The searcher of the soul ! 

I, that shower dewy light 
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms ! — the 

tempest-birth 
Of memory, thought, remorse : — Be holy, earth! 

I am the solemn night ! 



THE STORM PAINTER* IN HIS DUNGEON. 

Where of ye, tempests ! is the goal ? 
Are ye like those that shake the human breast ? 
Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest ? 

Childs Harold. 

Midnight, and silence deep ! 

— The air is fiU'd with sleep. 
With the stream's whisper, and the citron's breath ; 

The fix'd and solemn stars 

Gleam through my dungeon bars — 
Wake, rushing winds ! this breezeless calm is 
death ! 

Yc watch-fires of the skies ! 

The stillness of your eyes 
Looks too intensely through my troubled soul : 

I feel this weight of rest 

An earth-load on my breast — 
Wake, rushing winds, awake ! and, dark clouds, 
roll ! 

I am your own, yoiir child, 

O ye, the fierce and wild 
And kingly tempests ! — will ye not arise ? 

Hear the bold spirit's voice. 

That knows not to rejoice 
But in the peal of your strong harmonies. 

By sounding ocean-waves. 

And dim Calabrian caves. 
And flashing torrents, I have been your mate ; 

And with the rocking pines 

Of the olden Apennines, 
In your dark path stood fearless and elate : 

Your lightnings were as rods, 

That smote the dark abodes 
Of thought and vision— and the stream gush'd free ; 

Come, that my soul again 

May swell to burst its chain — 
Bring me the music of the sweeping sea ! 

Within me dwells a flame. 

An eagle caged and tame. 
Till call'd forth by the harping of the blast ; 

Then is its triumph's hour. 

It springs to sudden power, 
As mounts the billow o'er the quivering mast. 

Then, then, the canvas o'er. 

With hurried hand I pour 
The lava-waves and gusts of my own soul ! 

Kindling to fiery life 

Dreams, worlds, of pictured strife ; 
Wake, rushing winds, awake ! and, dark clouds, 
roll! 

Wake, rise ! the reed may bend. 

The shivering leaf descend. 
The forest branch give viay before your might; 

But I, your strong compeer. 

Call, summon, wait you here, — 
Answer, my spirit ! — answer, storm and night ! 



* Fietro Mulier. called II Tempesta, from his surprising pictures 
of storms. " His compositions," says Lanzi, " inspire a real horror, 
presenting to our eyes death-devoted ships overtaken by tempests 
and darkness; fired by lightning; now rising on the mountain- 
wave, and again submerged in the abyss of ocean." During an im- 
prisonment of five years in Genoa, the pictures which he painted in 
his dungeon were marked by additional power and gloom.— Sea 
Lanzi's History of Painting, translated by Koscoe. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



289 



DEATH AND THE WARRIOR. 



"Ay, Warrior, arm ! and wear thy plume 

On a proud and fearless brow ! 
I am the lord of the lonely tomb. 

And a mightier one than thou ! 

" Bid thy soul's love farewell, young chief, 

Bid her a long farewell I 
Like the morning's dew shall pass that grief— 

Thou comest \vith me to dwell ! 

" Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep. 

Thy steed o'er the breezy hill ; 
But they bear thee on to a place of sleep. 

Narrow, and cold, and chill!" 

" Was the voice I heard, thy voice, oh Death 7 

And is thy day so near ? 
Tiien on the field shall my life's last breath 

Mingle with victory's cheer ! 

" Banners shall float, with the trumpet's note, 

Above me as I die ! 
And the palm-tree wave o'er my noble grave, 

Under the Syrian sky. 

" High hearts shall burn in the royal hall, 
When the minstrel names that spot ; 

And the eyes I love shall weep my fall, — 
Death, Death ! I fear thee not !" 

"Warrior! thou bearest a haughty heart! 

But I can bend its pride ! 
How shoulrist thou know that thy soul will part 

In tiie hour of victory's tide ? 

" It may be far from thy steel-clad bands. 

That I shall make thee mine ; 
It may be lone on the desert sands, 

Where men for fountains pine ! 

" It may be deep amidst heavy chains, 

In some strong Paynim hold ; — 
I have slow dull steps and lingering pains, 

Wherewith to tame the bold !" 

"Death, Death ! I go to a doom unblest, 

If this indeed must be ; 
But the cross is bound upon my breast. 

And I may not shrink for thee ! 

" Sound, clarion, sound ! — for my vows are given 

To the cause of the holy shrine : 
I bow my soul to the will of Heaven, 

O Death! and not to thine !" 



THE TWO VOICES. 



Two solemn Voices in a funeral strain, 

Met as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain 

Meet in the sky : 
" Thou art gone hence !" one sang; " Our light is 

flown. 
Our beautiful, that seem'd too much our own, 

Ever to die ! 

" Thou art gone hence !— our joyous hills among 
Never again to pour thy soul in song. 

When spring-flowers rise ! 
Never the friend's familiar step to meet 
With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet 

Of thy glad eyes." 

" Thou art gone home, gone home .'" then , high and 

clear. 
Warbled that other Voice : " Thou hast no tear 

Again to shed. 
Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain, 
Never, weigh'd down by Memory's clouds, again 

To bow thy head. 

37 



" Thou art gone home ! oh ! early crown'd and 

blest ! 
Where could the love of that deep heart find rest 

'VVith aught below ! 
Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay, 
All the bright rose-leaves drop from life away— 
Thrice blest to go !" 

Yet sigh'd again that breeze-like Voice of grief— 
" Thou art gone hence ! alas 1 that aught so brief 

So loved should be! 
Thou tak'st our summer hence ! — the flower, the 

tone. 
The music of our being, all in one, 

Depart with thee ! 

" Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled! 
Canst thou be of the dead, the awiful dead! 

The dark unknown ? 
Yes ! to the dwelling where ho footsteps fall, 
Never again to light up hearth or hall. 

Thy smile is gone !" 

" Home ! home,!" once more th' exulting voice arose: 
" Thou art gone home ! from that divine repose 

Never to roam ! 
Never to say farewell, to weep in vain. 
To read of change in eyes beloved, again — 

Thou art gone home ! 

" By the bright waters now thy lot is cast, — 
Joy for thee, happy friend! thy bark hath past 

The rough sea's foam ! 
Now the long yearnings of thy soul are still'd,— 
Home ! home !— thy peace is won, thy heart is fiU'd. 

—Thou art gone home !" 



THE PARTING SHIP. 



A glittering ship that hath the plain 
Of ocean for her own domain. 

IVordnuorth. 



Go, in thy glory, o'er the ancient sea, 

Take with thee gentle winds thy sails to swell ; 
Sunshine and joy upon thy streamers be, — 

Pare thee well, bark! farewell ! 

Proudly the flashing billow thou hast cleft. 
The breeze yet follows thee with cheer and song; 

Who now of storms hath dream or memory left ? 
And yet the deep is strong ! 

But go thou triumphing, while still the smiles 
Of summer tremble on the water's breast ! 

Thou Shalt be greeted by a thousand isles, 
In lone, wild beauty drest. 

To thee a welcome, breathing o'er the tide, 
The genii groves of Araby shall pour; 

Waves that enfold the pearl shall bathe thy side, 
On the old Indian shoi-e. 

Oft shall the shadow of the palm-tree lie 
O'er glassy bays wherein thy sails are furl'd. 

And its leaves whisper, as the wind sweeps by, 
Tales of the elder world. 

Oft shall the burning stars of Southern skies. 
On the mid-ocean see thee chain'd in sleep, 

A lonely home for human thoughts and ties. 
Between the heavens and deep. 

Blue seas that roll on gorgeous coasts renown'd, 
By night shall sparkle where thy prow makes 
way ; 
Strange creatures of the abyss that none may 
sound, 
In thy broad wake shall play. 

From hills unknown, in mingled joy and fear. 
Free dusky tribes shall pour, thy flag to mark ; — 

Blessings go with thee on thy lone career ! 
Hail, and farewell, thou bark ! 



290 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



A long farewell '.—Thou wilt not bring us back 
All whom thou bearestfar from home and hearth: 

Many are thine, whose steps no more shall track 
Their own sweet native earth ! 

Some wilt thou leave beneath the plantain's shade, 
Where through the foliage Indian suns look 
bright ; 

Some, in the snows of wintry regions laid, 
By the cold northern light. 

And some, far down below the sounding wave, — 
Still shall they lie, though tempests o'er them 
sweep ; 

Never may flower be strewn above their grave, 
Never may sister weep ! 

And thou— the billow's queen — even thy proud 
form 

On our glad sight no more perchance may swell ; 
Yet God alike is in the calm and storm — 

Fare thee well, bark ! farewell ! 



THE LAST TREE OF THE FOREST. 



Whisper, thou Tree, thou lonely Tree, 

One, where a thousand stood ! 
Well might proud tales be told by thee, 

Last of the solemn wood ! 

Bwells there no voice amidst thy boughs. 

With leaves yet darkly green ? 
Stillness is round, and noontide glows — 

Tell us what thou hast seen. 

" I have seen the forest shadows lie 

Where men now reap the corn ; 
I have seen the kingly chase rush by, 

Through the deep glades at morn. 

"With the glance of many a gallant spear. 

And the wave of many a plume. 
And the bounding of a hundred deer. 

It hath lit the woodland's gloom. 

" I have seen the knight and his train ride past. 

With his banner borne on high ; 
O'er all my leaves there was brightness cast 

From his gleaming panoply. 

" The pilgrim at my feet hath laid 
His palm-branch 'midst the flowers, 

And told his deeds, and meekly pray'd, 
Kneeling, at vesper-hours. 

"And the merry-men of wild and glen, 

In the green array they wore, 
Have feasted here with the red wine's cheer. 

And the hunter's song of yore. 

" And the minstrel, resting in my shade. 

Hath made the forest ring 
With the lordly tales of the high Crusade, 

Once loved by chief and king. 

" But now the noble forms are gone, 

That walk'd the earth of old ; 
The soft wind hath a mournful tone, 

The sunny light looks cold. 

" There is no glory left us now. 

Like the glory with the dead : — 
I would that where they slumber low 

My latest leaves were shed !" 

Oh ! thou dark Tree, thou lonely tree, 

That mournest for the past ! 
A peasant's home in thy shades I see, 

Embower'd from every blast. 

A lovely and a mirthful sound 

Of laughter meets mine ear ; 
For the poor man's children sport around. 

On the turf, with naught to fear. 



And roses lend that cabin's wall 

A happy summer-glow ; 
And the open door stands free to all. 

For it recks not of a foe. 

And the village bells are on the breeze 
That stirs thy leaf, dark Tree! 

How can I mourn, 'midst things like these, 
For the stormy past, with thee ? 



THE STREAMS. 



The power, the beauty, and the majesty. 

That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain, 

Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring. 

Or chasms and watery depths ; all those have vanish'd ! 

They live no longer in the faith of heaven, 

But still the heart doth need a langua ge ! 

Coleridgt's Walknshin, 

Ye have been holy, O founts and floods! 
Ye of the ancient and solemn woods, 
Ye that are boi'n of the valleys deep. 
With the water-flowers on your breast asleep, 
And ye that gush from the sounding caves — 
Hallow'd have been your waves. 

Hallow'd by man, in his dreams of old. 
Unto beings not of this mortal mould. 
Viewless, and deathless, and wondrous powers, 
Whose voice he heard in his lonely hours. 
And sought with its fancied sound to still 
The heart earth could not fill. 

Therefore the flowers of bright summers gone. 
O'er your sweet waters, ye streams ! were thrown 
Thousand of gifts, to the sunny sea 
Have ye swept along in your wanderings free, 
And thrill'd to the murmur of many a vow^ 
Where all is silent now ! 

Nor seems it strange that the heart hath been 
So link'd in love to your margins green ; 
That still, though ruin'd, your early shrines 
In beauty gleam through the southern vines, 
And the "ivied chapels of colder skies. 
On your wild banks arise. 

For the loveliest scenes of the glowing earth. 
Are those, bright streams ! where your springs 

have birth ; 
Whether their cavern'd murmur fills. 
With a tone of plaint, the hollow hills. 
Or the glad sweet laugh of their healthful flow 
Is heard 'midst the hamlets low. 

Or whether ye gladden the desert-sands. 
With a joyous music to Pilgrim bands. 
And a flash from under some ancient rock. 
Where a shepherd-king might have watch'd his 

flock, 
Where a few lone palm-trees lift their heads, 
And a green Acacia spreads. 

Or whether, in bright old lands renown'd, 
The laurels thrill to your first-born sound. 
And the shadow, flung from the Grecian pine. 
Sweeps with the breeze o'er your gleaming line, 
And the tall reeds whisper to your waves. 
Beside heroic graves. 

Voices and lights of the lonely place ! 
By the freshest fern your path we trace ; 
By the brightest cups on the emerald moss, 
Whose fairy goblets the turf emboss. 
By the rainbow-glancing of insect wings, 
In a thousand mazy rings. 

There sucks the bee, for the richest flowers 
Are all your own through the summer-hours ; 
There the proud stag his fair image knows. 
Traced on your glass beneath alder-boughs. 
And the Halcyon's breast, like the skies array'd, 
Gleams through the willow-shade. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



291 



But the wild sweet tales, that with elves and fays 
Peopled your banks in the olden days, 
And the memory left by departed love, 
To your antique founts in glen and grove, 
And the glory born of the poet's dreams — 

These are your charms, bright streams ! 

Now is the time of your flowery rites. 
Gone by with its dances and young delights : 
From your marble urns ye have burst away. 
From your chapel-cells to the laughing day ; 
Low lie your altars with moss o'ergrown, 

— And the woods again are lone 

Yet holy still be your living springs, 
Haunts of all gentle and gladsome things ! 
Holy, to converse with nature's lore. 
That gives the worn spirit its youth once more. 
And to silent thoughts of the love divine. 
Making the heart a shrine ! 



THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 

There is nothing in the wide world so like the voice of a spirit. 
Gra-ifs Ltlters. 

Oh ! many a voice is thine, thou Wind I full many 
a voice is thine, 

From every scene thy wing o'ei'sweeps thou bear'st 
a sound and sign ; 

A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a mas- 
tery all thine own, 

And the spirit is thy harp, O Wind ! that gives the 
answering tone. 

Thou hast been across red fields of war, where 

shiver'd helmets lie. 
And thou bringest thence the thrilling note of a 

clarion in the sky ; 
A rustling of proud banner-folds, a peal of stormy 

drums, — 
All these are in thy music met, as when a leader 

comes. 

Thou hast been o'er solitary seas, and from their 
wastes brought back 

Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery 
of thy track ; 

The chime of low soft southern waves on some 
green palmy shore. 

The hollow roll of distant surge, the gatlier'd bil- 
lows' roar. 

Thou art come from forests dark and deep, thou 

mighty rushing Wind ! 
And thou bearest all their unisons in one full 

swell combined ; 
The restless pines, the moaning stream, all hidden 

things and free. 
Of the dim old sounding wilderness, have lent 

their soul to thee. 

Thou art come from cities lighted up for the con- 
queror passing by, 

Thou art wafting from their streets a sound of 
haughty revelry ; 

The rolling of triumphant wheels, the harpings in 
the hall, 

The far-off shout of multitudes, are in thy rise 
and fall. 

Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, 

from ancient minsters vast. 
Through the dark aisles of a thousand years thy 

lonely wing hath pass'd ; 
Thou hast caught the anthem's billowy swell, the 

stately dirge's tone. 
For a chief, with sword, and shield, and helm, to 

his place of slumber gone. 

Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, wherein 

our young days flew. 
Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, the 

loved, the kind, the true ; 



Thou callest back those melodies, though now all 

changed and fled, — 
Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music from 

the dead ! 

Are all these notes in thee, wild Wind? these many 
notes in thee? 

For in our own unfathom'd souls their fount must 
surely be ; 

Yes ! buried, but unsleeping, there Thought watch- 
es. Memory lies, 

From whose deep urn the tones are pour'd through 
all Earth's harmonies. 



THE VIGIL OF ARMS.* 

A soDNDiNG step was heard by night 

In a church where the mighty slept. 
As a mail-clad youth, till morning's light, 

'Midst the tombs his vigil kept. 
He walk'd in dreams of power and fame, 

He lifted a proud, bright eye. 
For the hours were few that withheld his name 

From the roll of chivalry. 

Down the moon-lit aisles he paced alone, 

With a free and stately tread ; 
And the floor gave back a muflled tone 

From the couches of the dead : 
The silent many that round him lay. 

The crown'd and lielm'd that were. 
The haughty chiefs of the war-array — 

Each in his sepulclire ! 

But no dim warning of time or fate 

That youth's flush'd hopes could chill, 
He moved through the trophies of buried state 

With each proud pulse throbbing still. 
He heard, as the wind through the chancel sung, 

A swell of the trumpet's breath ; 
He look'd to the banners on high that hung. 

And not to the dust beneath. 

And a royal masque of splendour seem'd 

Before him to unfold ; 
Through the solemn arches on it stream'd. 

With many a gleam of gold : 
There were crested knight, and gorgeous dame, 

Glittering athwart the gloom. 
And he foUow'd, till his bold step came 

To his warrior-father's tomb. 

But there the still and shadowy might 

Of the monumental stone. 
And the holy sleep of the soft lamp's light. 

That over its quiet shone. 
And the image of that sire, who died 

In his noonday of renown — 
These had a power unto which the pride 

Of tiery life bow'd down. 

And a spirit from his early years 

Came back o'er his thoughts to move. 
Till his eye was fiU'd with memory's tears. 

And his heart with childhood's love ! 
And he look'd, vi'ith a change in his softening 
glance. 

To the armour o'er the grave,— 
For there they hung, the shield and lance, 

And the gauntlet of the brave. 

And the sword of many a field was there. 

With its cross for the hour of need. 
When the knight's bold war-cry hath sunk in 
prayer. 

And the spear is a broken reed! 
— Hush! did a breeze through the armour sigh? 

Did the fold of the banner shake ? 
Not so !— from the tomb's dark mystery 

There seem'd a voice to break ! 



* The candidate for knighthood was under the necessity- of keep- 
ing u'atcli. the nieht before his inausjuration, in a church, and com- 
pletely armed. This was called " the Vigil of Arms." 



292 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



He had heard that voice bid clarions blow. 

He had caught its last blessing's breath, — 
'T was the same — but its awful sweetness now 

Had an under-tone of death ! 
And it said,— "The sword hath conquer'd kings, 

And the spear through realms hath pass'd ; 
But the cross, alone, of all these things, 

Might aid me at the last." 



THE BEINGS OF THE MIND. 



The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray, 
, And more beloved existence ; that which Fate 
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage. 

£yrmi. 



Come to me with your triumphs and your woes, 
Ye forms, to life by glorious poets brought ! 

I sit alone with flowers and vernal boughs. 
In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought ; 

'Midst the glad music of the spring alone, 

And sorrowful for visions that are gone ! 

Come to me ! make your thrilling whispers heard. 
Ye, by those masters of the soul endow'd 

With life, and love, and many a burning word. 
That bursts from grief, like lightning from a 
cloud. 

And smites the heart, till all its chords reply, 

As leaves make answer when the wind sweeps by. 

Come to me ! visit my dim haunt !— the sound 
Of hidden springs is in the grass beneath ; 

The stock-dove's note above ; and all around, 
The poesy that with the violet's breath 

Floats through the air, in rich and sudden streams. 

Mingling, like music, with the soul's deep dreams. 

Friends, friends ! — for such to my lone heart ye 
are^ 

Unchanging ones ! from whose immortal eyes 
The glory melts not as a waning star. 

And the sweet kindness never, never dies ; 
Bright children of the bard ! o'er this green dell 
Pass once again, and light it with your spell ! 

Imogen ! fair Fidele ! meekly blending 
In patient grief, a " smiling with a sigh ;"* 

And thou, Cordelia ! faithful daughter, tending 
That sire, an outcast to the bitter sky ; 

Thou of the soft low voice '.—thou art not gone ! 

Still breathes for me its faint and flute-like tone. 

And come to me! sing me thy willow-strain. 
Sweet Desdemona ! with the sad surprise 

In thy beseeching glance, where still, though vain, 
Undimm'd, unquenchable affection lies ; 

Come, bowing thy young head to wrong and scorn, 

As a frail hyacinth, by showers o'erborne. 

And thou, too, fair Ophelia ! flowers are here 

That well might win thy footstep to the spot- 
Pale cowslips, meet for maiden's early bier. 

And pansies for sad thoughts,!- but needed not ! 
Come with thy wreaths, and all the love and light 
In that wild eye still tremulously bright. 

And Juliet, vision of the south! enshrining 
All gifts that unto its rich heaven belong; 

The glow, the sweetness, in its rose combining, 
The soul its nightingales pour forth in song ! 

Thou, making death deep joy !— but couldst thou 
die? 

No 1— thy young love hath immortality ! 



From earth's bright faces fades the light of morn, 
From earth's glad voices drops the joyous tone ; 

But ye, the children of the soul, were born 
Deathless, and for undying love alone ; 

And, oh ! ye beautiful ! 'tis well, how well. 

In the soul's world, with you, where change is not, 
to dwell ! 



TASSO'S CORONATION.* 



A crown of victory ! a triumphal song ! 
Oh ! call some friend, upon whose pitying heart 
The weary one may calmly sink to rest : 
Let some kind voice, beside bis lowly couch, 
Four the last prayer for mortal agony ! 



* Nobly he yokes 
A smiling with a sigh. 

Cymbeline. 
t Here's pansies for you— that 's for thoughts. 

Bamlet. 



A trumpet's note is in the sky, in the glorious 

Roinan sky. 
Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the 

voice of victory ; 
There is crowding to the capitol, the imperial 

streets along, 
For again a conqueror must be crown'd,— a kingly 

child of song : 

Yet his chariot lingers, 
Yet around his home 
Broods a shadow silently, 
'Midst the joy of Rome. 

A thousand thousand laurel-boughs are waving 

wide and far. 
To shed out their triumphal gleams around his 

rolling car; 
A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their 

wealth of flowers. 
To scatter o'er his path of fame bright hues in 

gem-like showers. 

Peace ! within his chamber 

Low the mighty lies ; 

With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow, 

And a wandering in his eyes. 

Sing, sing for him, the lord of song, for him, whose 
rushing strain 

In mastery o'er the spirit sweeps, like a strong 
wind o'er the main ! 

Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, for ever 
there to dwell, 

As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple's ho- 
liest cell. 

Yes ! for him, the victor. 
Sing, — but low, sing low I 
A soft sad miserere chant 
For a soul about to go ! 

The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o'er his way, 
Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a 

flood of golden day ; 
Streaming through every haughty arch of the Coe- 

sars' past renown — 
Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror 

for his crown ! 

Shut the proud bright sunshine 
From the fading sight ! 
There needs no ray by the bed of death, 
Save the holy taper's light. 

The wreath is twined,— the way is strewn— the 

lordly train are met — 
The streets are hung with coronals — why stays 

the minstrel yet ? 
Shout ! as an army shouts in joy around a royal 

chief — 
Bring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of love 

and grief! 

Silence ! forth we bring him, 

In his last array ; 

From love and grief the freed, the flown — 

Way for the bier — make way ! 

-•Tasso died at Rome on the day before that appointed for his 
Coronation in the Capitol. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



293 



THE BETTER LAND. 



*' I HEAR thee speak of the better land, 
Thou callest its children a happy band ; 
Mother ! oh where is that radiant shore ? 
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ? 
Is it where the flower of the orange blows. 
And the fire-flies glance thro' the myrtle boughs?" 
— " Not there, not thei'e, my child I" 

" Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise. 
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? 
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas, \ 
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze. 
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings. 
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?" 

— " Not there, not there, my child !" 

" Is it far away, in some region old. 
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ? — 
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 
And the diamond lights up the secret mine. 
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand ? 
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land V 
— " Not there, not there, my cJiild ! 

" Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! 
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; 
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair — 
Sorrow and death may not enter there ; — 
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom. 
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, 
— It is there, it is there, my child !" 



THE REQUIEM OF GENIUS- 



Les poetes dont Pimagination tient a la puissance d'aimer et de 
souffrir, ne sont-ils pas les bancis d'une autre region ? 

Madame De, Stael. De L'MlemagTie. 



No tears for thee ! — though light be from us gone 
With thy soul's radiance, bright, yet restless one! 

No tears for thee ! 
They that have loved an exile, must not mourn 
To see him parting for his native bourne 

O'er the dark sea. 

All the high music of thy spirit here. 
Breathed but the language of another sphere, 

Unechoed round ; 
And strange, though sweet, as 'midst our weeping 

skies 
Some half-remember'd strain of paradise 
Might sadly sound. 

Hast thou been answer'd? thou, that from the night 
And from the voices of the tempest's might. 

And from the past, 
Wert seeking still some oracle's reply, 
To pour the secrets of man's destiny 

Forth on the blast ! 

Hast thou been answer'd ?— thou, that through the 

gloom, 
And shadow, and stern silence of the tomb, 

A cry didst send, 
So passionate and deep? to pierce, to move, 
To win back token of unburied love 
From buried friend 1 

And hast thou found where living waters burst? 
Thou, that didst pine amidst us, in the thirst 

Of fever-dreams ! 
Are the true fountains thine for evermore ? 
Oh! lured so long by shining mists, that wore 

The light of streams ! 

Speak! is it well with thee?— We call, as thou. 
With thy lit eye, deep voice, and kindled brow, 

Wert wont to call 
On the departed I Art thou blest and free ? 
— Alas ! the lips earth covers, even to tkee. 

Were silent all ! 



Yet shall our hope rise fann'd by quenchless faith, 
As a flame, foster'd by some warm wind's breath, 

In light upsprings : 
Freed soul of song ! yes, thou hast found the 

sought ; 
Borne to tliy home of beauty and of thought, 
On morning's wings. 

And we will dream it is thy joy we hear. 
When life's young music, ringing far and clear, 

O'erflovv's the sky : 
— No tears for thee ! the lingering gloom is ours — 
Thou art for converse with all glorious powers, 

Never to die ! 



SADNESS AND MIRTH. 



Nay, these wild fits of uncurb'd laugliter 
Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind. 
As it has lower'd of late, so keenly cast, 
Unsuited seem, and strange. 

Oh I nothing strange ! 
Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, 
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud. 
In the sunn'd glimpses of a troubled day, 
Shiver in silvery brightness ? 
Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning flash 
In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's path. 
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake? 

0, gentle friend ! 
Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad. 
And may be so to-morrow ! 

Joanna Baillie. 



Ye met at the stately feasts of old. 
Where the bright wine foam'd over sculptured gold. 
Sadness and Mirth !— ye were mingled there 
With the sound of the lyre in the scented air ; 
As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high, 
Ye mix'd in the gorgeous revelry. 

For there hung o'er those banquets of yore a gloom, 

A thought and a shadovs^ of the tomb ; 

It gave to the flute-notes an under-tone. 

To the rose a colouring not its own, 

■To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power — 

Sadness and Mirth ! ye had each your dower ! 

Ye met when the triumph swept proudly by. 
With the Roman eagles through the sky ! 
I know that ev'n then, in his hour of pride, 
The soul of the mighty within him died ; 
That a void in his bosom lay darkly still. 
Which the music of victory might never fill. 

Thou wert there, oh ! Mirth I swelling on the shout, 
Till the temples, like echo-caves, rang out ; 
Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine. 
All the rich voices in air were thine. 
The incense, the sunshine— but, Sadness ! thy part. 
Deepest of all, was the victor's heart ! 

Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear ; 

Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier ! 

As the gleam from a sea-bird's white wing shed. 

Crosses the storm in its path of dread ; 

As a diree meets the breeze of a slimmer sky — 

Sadness and Mirth! so ye come and fly ! 

Ye meet in.the poet's haunted breast. 
Darkness and rainljow, alike its guest ! 
When the breath of the violet is out in spring. 
When the woods with the wakening of music ring, 
O'er his dreamy spirit your currents pass. 
Like shadow and sunlight o'er mountain grass. 

When will your parting be. Sadness and Mirth ? 
IJright stream and dark one !— oh ! never on earth ; 
Never while triumphs and tombs are. so near. 
While Death and Love walk the same dim sphere. 
While flowers unfold where the storm may sweep, 
While the heart of man is a soundless deep ! 



294 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



But there smiles a land, oh ! ye troubled pair ! 
Where ye have no part in the summer air. 
Far from the breathings of changeful slvies, 
Over the seas and the graves it lies; 
Where the day of the fightning and cloud is done, 
And joy reigns alone, as the lonely sun ! 



SECOND SIGHT. 



Ne'er err'd the prophet heart that grief inspired, 
Though joy's illusions moclt their votarist. 

Mafurin, 



A MOURNFUL gift is mine, O friends ! 

A mournful gift is mine ! 
A murmur of the soul which blends 

With the flow of song and wine. 

An eye that through the triumph's hour, 

Beholds the coming woe. 
And dwells upon the faded flower 

'Midst the rich summer's glow. 

Ye smile to view fair faces bloom 
Where the father's board is spread ; 

I see the stillness and the gloom 
Of a home whence all are fled. 

I see the wither'd garlands lie 

Forsaken on the earth, 
While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly 

Through the ringing hall of mirth. 

I see the blood-red future stain 

On the warrior's gorgeous crest ; 
And the bier amidst the bridal train 

When they come with roses drest. 

I hear the still small moan of Time, 

Through the ivy branches made. 
Where the palace, in its glory's prime, 

With the sunshine stands array'd. 

The thunder of the seas I hear, 

The shriek along the wave. 
When the bark sweeps forth, and song and cheer 

Salute the parting brave. 

With every breeze a spirit sends 

To me some warning sign : — 
A mournful gift is mine, O friends ! 

A mournful gift is mine ! 

Oh ! prophet heart ! thy grief, thy power, 

To all deep souls belong ; 
The shadow in the sunny hour. 

The wail in the mirthful song. 

There sight is all too sadly clear — 

For them a veil is riven : 
Their piercing thoughts repose not here, 

Their home is but in Heaven. 



THE SEA-BIRD FLYING INLAND. 



With the dancing of waters through copse and dell, 
And the bee's low tune in the foxglove's bell. 

Thou hast done well:— Oh ! the seas are lone. 
And the voice they send up hath a mournful tone ; 
A mingling of dirges and wild farewells. 
Fitfully breathed through its anthem-swells. 

— The proud bird rose as the words were said — 
The rush of his pinion swept o'er my head. 
And the glance of his eye, in its bright disdain, 
Spoke him a child of the haughty main. 

He hath flown from the woods to the ocean's breast, 
To his throne of pride on the billow's crest ! 
— Oh 1 who shall say, to a spirit free, 
" There lies the pathway of bliss for thee ?" 



THE SLEEPER. 



For sleep is awful. Byron, 



Thy path is not as mine : — where thou art blest, 
My spirit would but wither : mine own grief 
Is in mine eyes a richer, holier thing 
Than all thy happiness. 

Hath the summer's breath, on the south-wind 

borne. 
Met the dark seas in their sweeping scorn ? 
Hath it lured thee. Bird! from their sounding caves, 
To the river-shores, where the osier waves? 

Or art thou come on the hills to dwell. 

Where the sweet- voiced echoes have many a cell? 

Where the moss bears print of the wild-deer's 

tread. 
And the heath like a royal robe is spread ? 

Thou hast done well, O thou bright sea-bird ! 
There is joy where the song of the lark is heard, 



Oh ! lightly, lightly tread ! 

A holy thing is sleep. 
On the worn spirit shed. 

And eyes that wake to weep. 

A holy thing from Heaven, 

A gracious dewy cloud, 
A covering mantle given 

The weary to enshroud. 

Oh ! lightly, lightly tread ! 

Revere the pale still brow. 
The meekly-drooping head. 

The long hair's willowy flowi 

Ye know not what ye do. 
That call the slumberer back, 

From the world unseen by you, 
Unto life's dim faded track. 

Her soul is far away, 

In her childhood's land, perchance, 
Where her young sisters play. 

Where shines her mother's glance. 

Some old svC^eet native sound 

Her spirit haply weaves; 
A harmony profound 

Of woods with all their leaves ; 

A murmur of the sea, 

A laughing tone of streams : — 
Long may her sojourn be 

In the music-land of dreams ! 

Each voice of love is there, 
Each gleam of beauty fled. 

Each lost one still more fair — 
Oh ! lightly, lightly tread ! 



THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL. 



O, DIM, forsaken mirror ! 
Hqw many a stately throng 
Hath o'er thee gleam'd, in vanish'd hours 
Of the wine-cup and the song ! 

The song hath left no echo ; 
The bright wine hath been quaff'd ; 
And hush'd is every silvery voice 
That lightly here hath laugh'd. 

Oh! mirror, lonely mirror, 
Thou of the silent hall ! 
Thou hast been flush'd with beauty's bloom- 
Is this, too, vanish'd all ? 

It is, with the scatter'd garlands 
Of triumphs long ago ; 
With the melodies of buried lyres ; 
With the faded rainbow's glow. 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



295 



And for all the gorgeous pageants, 
For the glance of gem and plume, 
For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath, 
And vase of rich perfume. 

Now, dim, forsaken mirror. 
Thou givest but faintlj' back 
The quiet stars, and the sailing moon, 
On her solitary track. 



And thus with man's proud spirit 
Thou tellest me 't will be; 
When the forms and hues of this world fade 
From his memory, as from thee : 

And his heart's long-troubled waters 
At last iu stillness lie, 
Reflecting but the images 

Of the solemn world on high, 



LAYS OF IVIANY LANDS, 

AND 

OTHER POEMS. 



The following pieces may so far be considered a series, as each 
is intended to be commemorative of some national recollection, 
popular custom, or tradition. The idea was suggested by Herder's 
"Stimmen der Volker in Liedem;" the execution is, however, dif- 
ferent, as the poems in his collection are chiefly translations. 

Most of those forming the present one have appeared, as well as 
the miscellaneous pieces attached to them, ia the New Monthly 
Magazine. 



MOORISH BRIDAL SONG. 

It is a cusfom among the Moors, that a female who 
dies unmarried is clothed for interment in wedding ap- 
parel, and the bridal song is sung over her remains be- 
fore they are borne from her home. — See the Jfarrative 
of a Ten Years' Residence in Tripoli, by the sister- 
in-law of Mr. Tully. 



The citron groves their fruit and flowers were 
strewing 

Around a Moorish palace, while the sigh 

Of low sweet summer-winds, the branches woo- 
ing. 

With music through their shadowy bowers went 
by; 

Music and voices, from the marble halls. 
Through the leaves gleaming, and the fountain- 
falls. 

A song of joy, a bridal song came swelling. 
To blend with fragrance in those southern shades. 
And told offcasts within the stately dwelling, 
Bright lamps, and dancing steps, and gem- 

crown'd maids ; 
And thus it flow'd ; — yet something in the lay 
Belong'd to sadness, as it died away. 

" The bride comes forth ! her tears no more are 

falling 
To leave the chamber of her infant years ; 
Kind voices from a distant home are calling; 
She comes like day-spring— she hath done with 

tears ; 
Now must her dark eye shine on other flowers. 
Her soft smile gladden other hearts than ours ! — 
Pour the rich odours round ! 

" We haste ! the chosen and the lovely bringing ; 
Love still goes with her from her place of birth; 
Deep, silent joy within her soul is springing. 
Though in her glance the light no more is mirth ! 
Her beauty leaves us in its rosy years ; 
Her sisters weep— but she hath done with tears!— 
Now may the timbrel sound !" 



Know'st thou for whom they sang the bridal 

numbers ? 
—One, whose rich tresses were to wave no more ! 
One, whose pale clieek soft winds, nor gentle 

slumbers. 
Nor Love's own sigh, to rose-tints might restore ! 
Her graceful ringlets o'er a bier were spread. — 
Weep for the young, the beautiful, — the dead 1 



THE SWORD OF THE TOMB. 

A NORTHERK LEGEND. 



' The idea of this ballad is taken from a scene in " Stark- 
other," a tragedy by the Danish poet Ochlenschlager. 
The sepulchral fire here alluded to, and supposed to 
guard the ashes of deceased heroes, is frequently men- 
tioned in the Northern Sagas. Severe sufferings to the 
departed spirit were supposed by the Scandinavian my- 
thologists to be the consequence of any profanation of 
the sepulchre. See Ochlcnschlaser' s Plays. 



" Voice of the gifted elder time ! 
Voice of the charm and the Runic rhyme ! 
Speak ! from the shades and the depths disclose, 
How Sigurd may vanquish his mortal foes ; 
Voice of the buried past ! 

" Voice of the grave ! 't is the mighty hour. 
When Night with her stars and dreams hath power, 
And my step hath been soundless on the snows. 
And the spell I have sung hath laid repose 
On the billow and the blast." 

Then the torrents of the North, 
And the forest pines were still. 
While a hollow chant came forth 
From the dark sepulchral hill. 

" There shines no sun 'midst the hidden dead, 
But where the day looks not, the brave may tread; 
There is heard no song, and no mead is poiir'd, 
But the warrior may come to the silent board, 
In the shadow of the night. 

" There is laid a sword in thy father's tomb. 
And its edge is fraught with thy foeman's doom ; 
But soft be thy step through the silence deep. 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep. 
For the viewless have fearful might 1" 

Then died the solemn lay. 
As a trumpet's music dies. 
By the night-wind borne away 
Tluough the wild and stormy skies. 

The fir-trees rock'd to the wailing blast. 
As on through the forest the warrior pass'd, — 
Through the forest of Odin, the dim and old. 
The dark place of visions and legends, told 
By the fires of northern pine. 

The fir-trees rock'd, and the frozen ground 
Gave back to his footstep a hollow sound ; 



296 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



And it seem'd that the depths of those awful shades, 
From the dreary gloom of their long arcades, 
Gave warning, with voice and sign. 

But the wind strange magic knows, 
To call wild shape and tone 
From the gray wood's tossing boughs. 
When Night is on her throne. 

The pines closed o'er liim with deeper gloom, 
As he took the path to the monarch's tomb ; 
The Pole-star shone, and the heavens were bright 
With the arrowy streams of the Northern light, 
But his road through dimness lay ! 

He pass'd, in the heart of that ancient wood, 
The dark shrine stain'd with the victim's blood ; 
Nor paused, till the rock where a vaulted bed 
Had been hewn of old for the kingly dead, 
Arose on his midnight way. 

Then first a moment's chill 
Went shuddering through his breast. 
And the steel-clad man stood still 
Before that place of rest. 

But he cross'd at length with a deep-drawn breath. 
The threshold-floor of the hall of Death, 
And look'd on the pale mysterious fire 
Which gleam'd from the urn of his warrior-sire. 
With a strange and solemn light. 

Then darkly the words of the boding strain 
Like an omen rose on his soul again, 
— "Soft be thy step through the silence deep. 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep. 
For the viewless have fearful might !" 

But the gleaming sword and shield 
Of many a battle-day 
Hung o'er that urn, reveal'd 
By the tomb-fire's waveless ray. 

With a faded wreath of oak-leaves bound. 
They hung o'er the dust of the far-renown'd, 
Whom the bright Valkyriur's warning voice 
Had call'd to the banquet where gods rejoice, 
And the rich mead flows in light. 

With a beating heart his son drew near 
And still rang the verse in his thrilling ear, 
— " Soft be thy step through the silence deep. 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep. 
For the viewless have fearful might !" 

And many a Saga's rhyme. 
And legend of the grave. 
That shadowy scene and time 
Call'd back to daunt the brave. 

But he raised his arm — and the flame grew dim. 
And the sword in its light seem'd to wave and 

swim. 
And his faltering hand could not grasp it well — 
From the pale oak-wreath, with a clash it fell 

Through the chamber of the dead ! 

The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound. 
And the urn lay shiver'd in fragments round; 
And a rush, as of tempests, quench'd the fire. 
And the scatter'd dust of his warlike sire 
Was strewn on the champion's head. 

One moment — and all was still 
In the slumberer's ancient hall, 
When the rock had ceased to thrill 
With the mighty weapon's fall. 

The stars were just fading, one by one. 

The clouds were just tinged by the early sun. 

When there stream'd through the cavern a torch's 

flame, 
And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came 

To seek him in the tomb. 

Stretch'd on liis shield, like the steel-girt slain 
By moonlight seen on the battle-plain,' 



In a speechless trance lay the warrior there, 
But he wildly woke when the torch's glare 
Burst on him through the gloom. 

" The morning wind blows free, 
And the hour of chase is near ; 
Come forth, come forth, with me ! 
What dost thou, Sigurd, here!" 

" I have put out the holy sepulchral fire, 

I have scatter'd the dust of my warrior-sire! 

It burns on my head, and it weighs down my 

heart : 
But the winds shall not wander without their part 

To strew o'er the restless deep ! 

" In the mantle of death he was here with me 

now. 
There was wrath in his eye, there was gloom on 

his brow ; 
And his cold, still glance on my spirit fell 
With an icy ray and a withering spell — 

Oh ! chill is the house of sleep !" 

" The morning wind blows free. 
And the reddening sun shines clear; 
Come forth, come forth, with me ! 
It is dark and fearful here !" 

" He is there, he is there, with his shadowy frown, 
But gone from his head is the kingly crown, — 
The crown from his head, and the spear from his 

hand, — 
They have chased him far from the glorious land 

Where the feast of the gods is spread ! 

" He must go forth alone on his phantom steed. 
He must ride o'er the grave-hills with stormy speed; 
His place is no longer at Odin's board. 
He is driven from Valhalla without his sword I 
But the slayer shall avenge the dead !" 

That sword its fame had won 
By the fall of many a crest, 
But its fiercest work was done 
In the tomb, on Sigurd's breast ! 



THE BIRD'S RELEASE. 



The Indians of Bengal and of the Coast of Malabar 
bring cages filled with birds to the graves of their friends, 
over which they set the birds at liberty. This custom is 
alluded to in the description of Virginia's funeral. — See 
Paul and Virginia. 

Go forth, for she is gone ! 
With the golden light of her wavy hair. 
She is gone to the fields of the viewless air ; 

She hath left her dwelling lone ! 

Her voice hath pass'd away ! 
It hath pass'd away like a summer breeze. 
When it leaves the hills for the far blue seas. 

Where we may not trace its way. 

Go forth, and like her be free ! 
With thy radiant wing, and thy glancing eye. 
Thou hast all the range of the sunny sky. 

And what is our grief to thee ? 

Is it aught ev'n to her we mourn? 
Doth she look on the tears by her kindred shed ? 
Doth she rest with the flowers o'er her gentle head 

Or float on the light wind borne ? 

We know not— but she is gone ! 
Her step from the dance, her voice from the song. 
And the smile of her eye from the festal throng;— 

She hath left her dwelling lone ! 

When the waves at sunset shine. 
We may hear thy voice, amidst thousands more, 
In the scented woods of our glowing shore. 

But we shall not know 'tis thine ! 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



297 



Ev'n so with the loved one flown ! 
Her smile in the starlight may wander by. 
Her breath may he near in the wind's low sigh, 

Around us — but all unknown. 

Go forth, we have loosed thy chain! 
We may deck thy cage vvitli the richest flowers, 
Wliicli the bright day rears in our eastern bowers, 

But tiiou wilt not be lured again. 

Ev'n thus may the summer pour 
All fragrant things on the land's green breast. 
And the glorious earth like a bride be dress'd, 

But it wins her back no more ! 



VALKYRIUR SONG. 



The Valkyriur, or Fatal Sisters of Northern mytho- 
logy, were supposed to single out the warriors who were 
to die in battle, and be received into the halls of Odin. 

When a Northern chief fell gloriously in war, his ob- 
sequies were honoured with all possible magnificence. 
His arms, gold and silver, war-horse, domestic attend- 
ants, and whatever else he held most dear, were placed 
with him on the pile. His dependents and friends fre- 
quently made it a point of honour to die with their lead- 
er, in order to attend on his shade in Valhalla, or the 
Palace of Odin. And lastly, his wife was generally 

consumed with him on the same pile. Sec Mallet's 

J^forthern Antiquities, Herbert's Helga, Src. 



Tremblingly fiash'd th' inconstant meteor light, 
Showing thin forms like virgins of this earth. 
Save that all signs of human joy or grief, 
The flush of passion, smile or tear, had seem'd 
On the fix'd brightness of each dazzling cheek 
Strange and unnatural. Milm(xn, 



The Sea-king woke from the troubled sleep 

Of a vision-haunted night. 
And he look'd from his bark o'er the gloomy deep, 
And counted the streaks of light ; 
For the red sun's earliest ray 
Was to rouse his bands that day, 
To the stormy joy of tight ! 

But the dreams of rest were still on earth. 

And the silent stars on high. 
And there waved not the smoke of one cabin hearth 
'JVIidst the quiet of the sky ; 
And along the twilight bay. 
In their sleep the hamlets lay, 
For they knew not the Norse were nigh ! 

The Sea-king look'd o'er the brooding wave. 

He turn'd to the dusky shore. 
And there seem'd, through the arch of a tide-worn 
cave, 
A gleam, as of snow, to pour ; 
And forth, in watery light. 
Moved phantoms, dimly white, 
Which the garb of woman bore. 

Slowly they moved to the billow side ; 

And the forms, as they grew more clear, 
Seem'd each on a tall, pale steed to ride, 
And a shadowy crest to rear. 
And to beckon with faint hand 
From the dark and rocky strand, 
And to point a gleaming spear. 

Then a stillness on his spirit fell. 

Before th' unearthly train. 
For he knew Valhalla's daughters well, 
The Choosers of the slain ! 
And a sudden rising breeze 
Bore, across the moaning seas. 
To his ear their tln'illing strain. 

"There are songs in Odin's Hall, 
For the brave, ere night to fall! 

38 



Doth the great sun hide his ray?— 
He must bring a wrathful day ! 
Sleeps the falchion in its sheath?— 
Swords must do the work of death! 
Regner !— Sea-king \—thec we call I — 
There is joy in Odin's Hall. 

" At the feast and in the song. 
Thou Shalt be remember'd long! 
By the green isles of the flood 
Thou hast left thy track in blood! 
On the earth and on the sea. 
There are those will speak of thee t 
Tis enough, — the war -gods call, — 
There is mead in Odin's Hall ! 

" Regner ! tell thy fair-hair'd bride 
She must slumber at thy side ! 
Tell the brother of thy breast, 
E'en for him thy grave hath rest 1 
Tell the raven steed which bore thee. 
When the wild wolf fled before thee, 
He, too, with his lord must fall, — 
There is room in Odin's Hall ! 

" Lo ! the mighty sun looks forth — 
Arm I thou leader of the north ! 
Lo ! the mists of twilight fly, — 
We nmst vanish, thou must die ! 
By the sword and by the spear. 
By the hand that knows not fear. 
Sea-king I nobly shalt thou fall ! — 
There is joy in Odin's Hall !" 

There was arming heard on land and wave, 

When afar the sunlight spread. 

And the phantom forms of the tide-worn cave 

With the mists of morning fled. 

But at eve, the kingly hand 

Of the battle-axe and brand, 

Lay cold on a pile of dead ! 



SWISS SONG, 

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE. 



The Swiss, even to our days, have continued to cele- 
brate the anniversaries of their ancient battles with much 
solemnity ; assembling in the open air on the fields where 
their ancestors fought, to hear thanksgivings offered up 
by the priests, and the names of all who shared in the 
glory of the day enumerated. They afterwards walk in 
procession to chapels, always erected in the vicinity of 
such scenes, where masses are sung for the souls of the 

departed. Sec Flanta's History of the Helvetic 

Confederacy. 

Look on the white Alps round! 

If yet they gird a land 
Where freedom's voice and step are found, 
Forget ye not the band. 
The faithful band, our sires, who fell 
Here, in the narrow battle dell ! 

If yet, the wilds among, 

Our silent hearts may burn. 
When the deep mountain-horn hath rung, 
And home our steps may turn, — 
Home !— home !— if still that name be dear, 
Praise to the men who perish'd here ! 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

Up to their shining snows 
That day the stormy rolling sound, 
The sound of battle, rose ! 
Their caves prolong'd the trumpet's blast. 
Their dark pines trembled as it pass'd 1 

They saw the princely crest. 

They saw the knightly spear. 
The banner and the mail-clad breast. 
Borne down, and trampled here ! 
They saw— and glorying there they stand. 
Eternal records to the land ! 



298 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Praise to the mountain-born, 
Tlie bretliren of the glen ! 
By them no steel array was worn, 
They stood as peasant-men ! 
They left the vineyard and the field 
To break an empire's lance and shield 1 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

If yet, along their steeps. 
Our children's fearless feet may bound. 
Free as the chamois leaps : 
Teach them in song to bless the band 
Amidst whose mossy graves we stand ! 

If, by the wood-fire's blaze. 

When winter stars gleam cold. 
The glorious tales of elder days 
May proudly yet be told. 
Forget not then the shepherd race, 
Who made the hearth a holy place ! 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

If yet the Sabbath-bell 
Comes o'er them with a gladdening sound. 
Think of the battle dell ! 
For blood first bathed its flowery sod, 
That chainless hearts might worship God ! 



THE CAVERN OF THE THREE TELLS. 

SWISS TRADITION. 



The three founders of the Helvetic Confederacy are 
thought to sleep in a cavern near the Lake of Lucerne. 
The herdsmen call them the Three Tells ; and say that 
they lie there in their antique garb, in quiet slumber; 
and when Switzerland is in her utmost need, they will 

awaken and regain the liberties of the land. See 

(luarterly Review, No. 44. 

The Griitli, where the confederates held their nightly 
meetings, is a meadow on the shore of the Lake of Lu- 
cerne, or Lake of the Forest-cantons, here called the 
Forest-sea. 



Oh ! enter not yon shadowy cave. 
Seek not the bright spars there, 
Though the whispering pines that o'er it wave. 
With freshness fill the air : 

For there the Patriot Three, 
In the garb of old array'd. 
By their native Forest-sea 
On a rocky couch are laid. 

The Patriot Three that met of yore. 

Beneath the midnight sky, 
And leagued their hearts on the Griitli shore. 
In the name of liberty ! 
Now silently they sleep 

Amidst the hills they freed ; 
But their rest is only deep, 

Till their country's hour of need. 

They start not at the hunter's call. 

Nor the Lammer-geyer's cry. 
Nor the rush of a sudden torrent's fall. 
Nor the Lauwin.e thundering by ! 
And the Alpine herdsman's lay. 
To a Switzer's heart so dear! 
On the wild wind floats away, 
No more for them to hear. 

But when the battle-horn is blown 

Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply, 
When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone 
Through their eagles' lonely sky ; 

When spear-heads light the lakes. 
When trumpets loose the snows. 
When the rushing war-steed shakes 
The glacier's mute repose ; 

When Uri's beechen woods wave red 

In the burning hamlet's light ;— 
Then from the cavern of the dead. 

Shall the sleepers wake in might ! 



With a leap, like Tell's proud leap, 
A'VIhen away the helm he flung,* 

And boldly up the steep 
From the flashing billow sprung ! 

They shall wake beside their Forest-sea, 

In the ancient garb they wore 
When they link'd the hands that made us free. 
On the Griitli's moonlight shore : 
And their voices shall be heard. 

And be answer'd with a shout, 

Till the echoing Alps are stirr'd. 

And the signal-fires blaze out. 

And the land shall see such deeds again 

As those of that proud day. 
When Winkclried, on Sempach's plain. 
Through the serried spears made way ; 
And when the rocks came down 

On the dark Morgarten dell. 
And the crown'd casques,! o'erthrown, 
Before our fathers fell ! 

For the Kiihreihen's| notes must never sound 

In a land that wears the chain, 
And the vines on freedom's holy ground 
Untrainpled must remain ! 

And the yellow harvests wave 

For no stranger's hand to reap, 
While within their silent cave 
The men of Griitli sleep ! 



THE MESSENGER BIRD. 



Some of the BraziUans pay great attention to a cer- 
tain bird that sings mournfully in the night-time. They 
say it is a messenger which their deceased friends and 
relations have sent, and that it brings them news from 
the other world. See Picart's Ceremonies and Re- 
ligious Customs. 

Thoc; art come from the spirit's land, thou bird ! 

Thou art come from the spirit's land I 
Through the dark pine-grove let thy voice be heard, 

Arid tell of the shadowy band I 

We know that the bowers are green and fair 
In the light of that summer shore. 

And we know that the friends we have lost are 
there. 
They are there — and they weep no more ! 

And we know they have quench'd their fever's 
thirst. 

From the Fountain of Youth ere now,§ 
For there must the stream in its freshness burst, 

Which none may find below I 

And we know that they will not be lured to earth 

From the land of deathless flowers. 
By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth, 
Though their hearts were once with ours : 

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze, 

And bent with us the bow, 
And heard the tales of our father's days. 

Which are told to others now ! 

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain ! 

Can those who have loved forget ? 
We call— and they answer not again — 

Do they love— do they love us yet? 

« The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat of Gess- 
ler is marked by a chapel, and called the Tettemprung. 

t Crowned Helmets, as a distinction of rank, are mentioned in 
Simond's Switzerland. 

t The Kiihreihen, the celebrated Bam des Faches. 

§ An expedition was actually undertaken by Juan Ponce de Leon, 
in the 16th century, with the view of discovering a wonderful foun- 
tain, believed by the natives of Puerto Rico to spring in one of the 
Lucayo Isles, and to possess the virtue of restoring youth to all who 
bathed in its waters. See Rohtrlson's History of Anierica. 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



299 



Doth the warrior think of his brother there. 

And the father of his child ? 
And the chief, of those that were wont to share 

His wanderings through tlie wild ? 

We call them far through the silent night, 
And they speak not from cave or hill ; 

We know, thou bird ! that their land is bright, 
But say, do they love there still ? 



THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA. 



An early traveller mentions a people on the banks of 
the Mississippi who burst into tears at the sight of a 
stranger. The reason of this is, that they fancy their 
deceased friends and relations to be gone on a journey, 
and being in constant expectation of their return, look 
for them vainly amongst these foreign travellers.— Pij- 
cart's Ceremonies and ReligioiLS Customs. 

"J'ai passe moi-meme," says Chateaubriand in his 
Souvenirs d'Amerique, "chez une peuplade Indienne 
qui se prenait a pleurer a la vue d'un voyageur, parce 
qu'il lui rappelait des amis partis pour la Contree des 
Ames, et depuis long-tems en voyage." 



We saw thee, O stranger, and wept ! 
We look'd for the youth of the sunny glance. 
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance, 
The light of his eye was a joy to see, 
The path of his arrovts a storm to flee ! 
But there came a voice from a distant shore. 
He was call'd — he is found 'midst his tribe no more ! 
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn. 
But we look for him still — he will yet return ! — 
His brother sat with a drooping brow 
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough ; 
We roused him — we bade him no longer pine, 
For we heard a step— but the step wa"s thine. 

We saw thee, O stranger, and wept ! 
We look'd for the maid of the mournful song — 
Mournful, though sweet— she hath left us long! 
We told her the youth of her love was gone. 
And she went forth to seek him — she pass'd alone ; 
We hear not her voice when the woods are still, 
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill. 
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled. 
The winter is white on his lonely head. 
He hath none by his side when the wilds we track. 
He hath none when we rest— yet she comes not 

back ! 
We look'd for her eye on the feast to shine. 
For her breezy step — but the step was thine ! 

We saw thee, O stranger, and wept ! 
We look'd for the chief who hath left the spear 
And the bow of his battles forgotten here ! 
We look'd for the hunter, whose bride's lament 
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent : 
We look'd for the first-born, whose mother's cry 
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky! — 
Where are they? — thou'rt seeking some distant 

coast — 
Oh, ask of them, stranger! — send back the lost ! 
Tell them we mourn by the dark blue streams, 
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams ! 
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine, 
And to watch for a step— but the step was thine ! 



THE BENDED BOW. 

It is supposed that war was anciently proclaimed in 
Britain by sending messengers in diflerent directions 
through the land, each bearing a bended how ; and that 
peace was in like manner announced by a bow unstrung, 
and therefore straight.— -.S'ec tlie Cambrian Antiquities. 



There was heard the sound of a coming foe. 
There was sent through Britain a Bended Bow, 
And a voice was pour'd on the free winds far, 
As the land rose up at the sign of war. 



" Heard ye not the battle-horn ?— 
Reaper ! leave thy golden corn ! 
Leave it for the birds of Heaven, 
Swords must flash, and spears be riven ! 
Leave it for the vtinds to shed — 
Arm! ere Britain's turf grow red!" 

And the reaper arm'd, like a freeman's son. 
And the Bended Bow and the voice pass'd on. 

"Hunter! leave the mountain-chase! 
Take the falchion from its place 1 
Let the wolf go free to-day, 
Leave him for a nobler prey ! 
Let the deer ungall'd sweep by,— 
Arm thee ! Britain's foes are nigh !" 

And the hunter arm'd ere the chase was done, 
And the Bended Bow and the voice pass'd on. 

" Chieftain ! quit the joyous feast ! 
Stay not till the song hath ceas'd : 
Though the mead be foaming bright, 
Though the fires give ruddy light, 
Leave the hearth, and leave the hall — 
Arm thee ! Britain's foes must fall." 

And the chieftain arm'd, and the horn was blown, 
And the Bended Bow and the voice pass'd on. 

" Prince ! thy father's deeds are told. 
In the bower and in the hold ! 
Where the goatherd's lay is sung, 
Where the minstrel's harp is strung ! — 
Foes are on thy native sea — 
Give our bards a tale of thee !" 

And the prince came arm'd, like a leader's son, 
And the Bended Bow and the voice pass'd on. 

" Mother ! stay thou not thy boy ! 
He must learn the battle's joy. 
Sister ! bring the sword and spear. 
Give thy brother words of cheer ! 
Maiden ! bid thy lover part, 
Britain calls the strong in heart I" 

And the Bended Bow and the voice pass'd on, 
And the bards made song for a battle won. 



THE ISLE OF FOUNTS. 

AN INDIAN TRADITION. 



"The river St. Mary has its source from a vast lake 
or marsh, which lies between Flint and Oakmulge rivers, 
and occupies a space of near three hundred miles in cir- 
cuit. This vast accumulation of waters, in the wet sea- 
son, appears as a lake, and contains some large islands 
or knolls of rich high land; one of which the present 
generation of the Creek Indians represent to be a most 
blissful spot of earth : they say it is inhabited by a pe- 
culiar race of Indians, whose women are incomparably 
beautiful. They also tell you that this terrestrial para- 
dise has been seen by some of their enterprising hunters, 
when in pursuit of game ; but that in their endeavours 
to approach it, they were involved in perpetual laby- 
rinths, and, like enchanted land, still as they imagined 
they had just gained it, it seemed to fly before them, al- 
ternately appearing and disappearing. They resolved, 
at length, to leave the delusive pursuit, and to return, 
which, alter a number of ditliculties, they effected. 
When they reported their adventures to their country- 
men, the young warriors were inflamed with an irre- 
sistible desire to invade, and make a conquest of so 
charming a country ; but all their attempts have hitherto 
proved abortive, never having been able to find that en- 
chanting spot." — Bartram's Travels through JVortk 
and South Carolina, <$-c. 

The additional circumstances in the "Isle of Founts" 
are merely imaginary. 

Son of the stranger ! wouldst thou take 
O'er yon blue liills thy lonely way. 

To reach the still and shining lake 

Along whose banks the west winds play?— 



300 



HEMANS' POEMS, 



Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile, 
Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle ! 

Lull but the mighty Serpent King,* 
'Midst the gray rocks, his old domain ; 

Ward but the cougar's deadly spring, — 
Thy step that lake's green shores may gain ; 

And the bright Isle, when all is pass'd. 

Shall vainly meet thine eye at last ! 

Yes ! there, with all its rainbow streams. 

Clear as within thine arrow's flight. 
The Isle of Founts, the Isle of dreams, 
Floats on the vi^ave in golden light ; 
And lovely will the shadows be 
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee ! 

And breathings from their sunny flowers. 

Which are not of the things that die. 
And singing voices from their bowers. 
Shall greet thee in the purple sky ; 
Soft voices, e'en like those that dwell 
Far in the green reed's hollow cell. 

Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise 

From the deep chambers of the earth? 
The wild and wondrous melodies 
To which the ancient rocks gave birth ?t 
Like that sweet song of hidden caves 
Shall swell those wood-notes o'er the waves. 

The emerald waves !— they take their hue 

And image from that sunbright shore ; 
But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe, 
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar. 
Before thee, hadst thou morning's speed. 
The dreamy land should still recede ! 

Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear 

The music of its flowering shades. 
And ever should the sound be near 
Of founts that ripple through its glades ; 
The sound, and sight, and flashmg ray 
Of joyous waters in their play ! 

But woe for him who sees them burst 

With their bright spray-showers to the lake ! 
Earth has no spring to quench the thirst 
That semblance in his soul shall wake. 
For ever pouring through his dreams. 
The gush of those untasted streams ! 

Bright, bright in many a rocky urn, 

The waters of our deserts lie. 
Yet at their source his lip shall burn, 
Parch'd with the fever's agony ! 
From the blue mountains to the main, 
Our thousand floods may roll in vain. 

E'en thus our hunters came of yore 

Back from their long and weary quest ; — 
Had they not seen th' untrodden shore, 
And could they 'midst our wilds find rest ? 
The lightning of their glance was fled. 
They dwelt amongst us as the dead ! 

They lay beside our glittering rills. 

With visions in their darken'd eye. 
Their joy was not amidst the hills. 
Where elk and deer before us fly ; 
Their spears upon the cedar hung. 
Their javelins to the wind were flung. 

They bent no more the forest-bow. 

They arm'd not with the warrior-band, 
The moons waned o'er them dim and slow — 
They left us for the spirits' land ! 
Beneath our pines yon greensward heap 
Shows where the restless found their sleep. 

* The CherokeeH believe that the recesses of their mountains, 
overgrown with lofty pines and cedars, and covered with old mossy 
rocks, are inhabited by the kings or chiefs of the rattle-snakes, whom 
they denominate the " bright old inhabitants." They represent them 
as snakes of an enormous size, and which possess the power of 
drawing to them every living creature that comes within the reach 
of their eyes. Their heads are said to be crowned with a carbuncle 
of dazzling brightness.— See Notes to Leydm's " Scenes of Infancy.^' 

tThe stones on the banks of the Oronoco, called by the South 



Son of the stranger I if at eve 

Silence be 'midst us in thy place. 
Yet go not where the mighty leave 
The strength of battle and of chase ! 
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile. 
Oh ! seek thou not the Fountain Isle ! 



HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN. 



It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death 
of his son. Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck 
off" the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile. 



The bark that held a prince went down, 

The sweeping waves roU'd on ; 
And what was England's glorious crown 

To him that wept a son ? 
He lived— for life may long be borne 

Ere sorrow break its chain ;— 
Why comes not death to those who mourn ?— 

He never smiled again ! 

There stood proud forms around his throne, 

The stately and the brave. 
But which could fill the place of one. 

That one beneath the wave ? 
Before him pass'd the young and fair. 

In pleasure's reckless train. 
But seas dash'd o'er his son's bright hair — 

He never smiled again ! 

He sat where festal bowls went round ; 

He heard the minstrel sing. 
He saw the tourney's victor crown'd. 

Amidst the knightly ring : 
A murmur of the restless deep 

Was blent with every strain, 
A voice of winds that would not sleep — 

He never smiled again ! 

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace 

Of vows once fondly pour'd. 
And strangers took the kinsman's place 

At many a joyous board ; 
Graves, which true love had bathed with tears, 

Were left to Heaven's bright rain. 
Fresh hopes were born for other years — 

He never smiled again ! 



C(EUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS 
FATHER. 



The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the ab- 
bey church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Rich- 
ard Coeur de Lion, who on beholding it, was struck 
with horror and remorse, and bitterly reproached him- 
self for that rebellious conduct which had been the 
means of bringing his father to an untimely grave. 



Torches were blazing clear. 

Hymns pealing deep and slow. 
Where a king lay stately on his bier. 

In the church of Fontevraud. 
Banners of battle o'er him hung. 

And warriors slept beneath. 
And light, as Noon's broad light, was flung 

On the settled face of death. 

On the settled face of death 

A strong and ruddy glare. 
Though dimm'd at times by the censer's breath, 

Yet it fell still brightest there : 
As if each deeply-furrow'd trace 

Of earthly years to show, — 
Alas ! that sceptred mortal's race 

Had surely closed in woe ! 

The marble floor was swept 
By many a long dark stole. 
As the kneeling priests round him that slept. 
Sang mass for the parted soul ; 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



301 



And solemn were the strains they pour'd 
Through the stillness of the niglit, 

With the cross above, and the crown and sword, 
And the silent king in sight. 

There was heard a heavy clang, 

As of steel-girt men the tread. 
And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang 

With a sounding thrill of dread ; 
And the holy chant was hush'd awhile, 

As by the torch's flame, 
A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle. 

With a mail-clad leader came. 

He came with haughty look. 

An eagle-glance and clear, 
But his proud heart through its breastplate shook. 

When he stood beside the bier ! 
He stood there still with a drooping brow. 

And clasp'd hands o'er it raised ; — 
For his father lay before him low. 

It was CcEur de Lion gazed ! 

And silently he strove 

With the workings of his breast, — 
But there's more in late repentant love 

Than steel may keep suppress'd ! 
And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain, — 

Men held their breath in awe. 
For his face was seen by his warrior-train, 

And he reck'd not that they saw. 

He look'd upon the dead. 

And sorrow seem'd to lie, 
A weight of sorrow, ev'n like lead. 

Pale on the fast-shut eye. 
He stoop'd— and kiss'd the frozen cheek, 

And the heavy hand of clay. 
Till bursting words — yet all too weak — 

Gave his soul's passion way. 

" Oh, father ! is it vain. 

This late remorse and deep ? 
Speak to me, father ! once again, 

I vs'eep— behold, I weep I 
Alas ! my guilty pride and ire ! 

Were but this work undone, 
I would give England's crown, ray sire ! 

To hear thee bless thy son. 

" Speak to me ! mighty grief 

Ere now the dust hath stirr'd! 
Hear me, but hear me !— father, chief. 

My king! I must be heard !— 
Hush'd, hush'd— how is it that I call. 

And that thou answerest not ? 
When was it thus?— woe, woe for all 

The love my soul forgot ! 

" Thy silver hairs I see. 

So still, so sadly bright ! 
And father, father ! but for me 

They had not been so white ! 
/bore thee down, high heart ! at last 

No longer couldst thou strive ; — 
Oh! for one moment of the past. 

To kneel and say — ' forgive !' 

" Thou wert the noblest king. 

On royal throne e'er seen ; 
And thou didst wear, in knightly ring. 

Of all, the stateliest mien ; 
And thou didst prove, where spears are proved 

In war, the bravest heart— 
Oh! ever the renown'd and loved 

Thou wert — and there thou art ! 

"Thou that my boyhood's guide 

Didst take fond joy to be ! — 
The times I've sported at thy side, 

Andclimb'd thy parent knee! 
And there before the blessed shrine, 

My sire ! I see thee lie, — 
How will that sad, still face of thine 

Look on me till I die ?" 



THE VASSAL'S LAMENT FOR THE 
FALLEN TREE. 

" Here (at Cape Brereton in Cheshire) is one thing in- 
credibly strange, but attested, as I myself have heard, 
by many persons, and commonly believed. Before any 
heir of this family dies, there are seen, in a lake adjoin- 
ing, the bodies of trees swimming on the water for se- 
veral days." Camden's Britannia. 

Yes! I have seen the ancient oak, 

On the dark, deep water cast, 
And it was not fell'd by the woodman's stroke, 
Or the rush of the sweeping blast; 
For the axe might never touch that tree. 
And the air was still as a summer sea. 

I saw it fall, as falls a chief 
By an arrow in the fight, 
Ami the old woods shook to their loftiest leaf. 
At the crashing of its might ! 
And the startled deer to their coverts drew. 
And the spray of the lake as a fountain's flew ! 

'Tis fall'n ! but think thou not I weep 

For the forest's pride o'erthrown ; 
An old man's tears lie far too deep. 
To be pour'd for this alone ! 
But by that sign too well I know. 
That a youthful head must soon be low ! 

A youthful head, with its shining hair. 

And its bright, quick-flashing eye- 
Well may I weep ! for the boy is fair. 
Too fair a thing to die ! 
But on his brow the mark is set — 
Oh ! could mij life redeem him yet ! 

He bounded by me as I gazed 

Alone on the fatal sign. 
And it seem'd like sunshine when he raised 
His joyous glance to mine ! 
With a stag's fleet step he bounded by, 
So full of life — but he must die ! 

He must, he must ! in that deep dell, 

By that dark vs'ater's side, 
'Tis known that ne'er a proud tree fell, 
But an heir of his fathers died. 
And he— there 's laughter in his eye, 
Joy in his voice— yet he must die I 

I've borne him in these arms, that now 

Axff nerveless and unstrung ; 
And must I see on that fair brow. 
The dust untimely flung ? 
I must! — yon green oak, branch and crest. 
Lies floating on the dark lake's breast ! 

The noble boy 1^— how proudly sprung 

The falcon from his hand ! 
It seem'd like youth to see him young, 
A flower in his father's land ! 
But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh. 
For the tree iiath fall'n, and the flower must die. 

Say not 't is vain ! — I tell thee, some 

Are warn'd by a meteor's light. 
Or a pale bird, flitting, calls them home. 
Or a voice on the winds by night ; 
And they must go ! — and he too, he — 
Woe for the fall' of the glorious Tree ! 



BRANDENBURGH HARVEST-SONG.* 

From the German of La Molte Fouque. 

The corn, in golden light, 

Waves o'er the plain ; 
The sickle's gleam is bright; 

Full swells the grain. 

* For the year of the Queen of Prussia's death. 



302 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Now send we far around 
Our harvest lay ! — 

Alas ! a heavier sound 
Comes o'er the day ! 

Earth shrouds with burial sod 
Her soft eye's blue,— 

Now o'er the gifts of God 
Fall tears like dew ! 

On every breeze a knell 
The hamlets pour, — 

We know its cause too well, 
She is no more ! 



THE WILD HUNTSMAN. 



It is a popular belief in the Odenwald, that the pass- 
ing of the Wild Huntsman announces the approach of 
war. He is supposed to issue with his train from the 
ruined castle of Rodenstein, and traverse the air to the 
opposite castle of Schnellerts. It is confidently asserted 
that the sound of his phantom horses and hounds was 
heard by the Duke of Baden before the commencement 
of the last war in Germany. 



Thy rest was deep at the slumberer's hour. 

If thou didst not hear the blast 
Of the savage horn, from the mountain tower. 

As the Wild iVight-Huntsman pass'd, 
And the roar of the stormy chase went by. 

Through the dark unquiet sky ! 

The stag sprang up from his mossy bed 
When he caught the piercing sounds. 

And the oak-boughs crash'd to his antler'd head, 
As he flew from the viewless hounds ; 

And the falcon soar'd from her craggy height, 
Away through the rushing night ! 

The banner shook on its ancient hold. 

And the pine in its desert place, 
As the cloud and tempest onward roll'd 

With the din of the trampling race ; 
And the glens were fJU'd with the laugh and shout. 

And the bugle, ringing out ! 

From the chieftain's hand the wine-cup fell, 

At the castle's festive board, 
And a sudden pause came o'er the swell 

Of the harp's triumphant chord ; 
And the Minnesinger's* thrilling lay 

In the hall died fast away. 

The convent's chanted rite was stay'd. 

And the hermit dropp'd his beads, 
And a trembling ran through the forest-shade. 

At the neigh of phantom steeds, 
And the chinch-bells peal'd to the rocking blast 

As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass'd. 

The storm hath swept with the chase away. 

There is stillness in the sky, 
But the mother looks on her son to-day, 

With a troubled heart and eye. 
And the maiden's brow hath a shade of care 

'Midst the gleam of her golden hair ; 

The Rhine flows bright, but its waves ere long 

Must hear a voice of war, 
And a clash of spears our hills among. 

And a trumpet from afar : 
And the brave on a bloody turf must lie, 

For the Huntsman hath gone by ! 



THE SHADE OF THESEUS. 

ANCIENT GREEK TRADITION. 

Know ye not when our dead 

From sleep to battle sprung ? — 
When the Persian charger's tread 
■ On their covering greensward rung! 



* Minnesinger, love-singer, — the wandering minstrels of Germa- 
Dy were so called in the middle ages. 



When the trampling march of foes 
Had crush'd our vines and tiowers, 

When jewell'd crests arose 
Through the holy laurel bowers. 

When banners caught the breeze, 
When helms in sunlight shone, 

When masts were on the seas. 
And spears on Marathon. 

There was one, a leader crown'd. 

And arm'd for Greece that day ; 
But the falchions made no sound 

On his gleaming war-array. 
In the battle's front he stood. 

With his tall and shadowy crest; 
But the arrows drew no blood 

Though their path was through his breast. 

When banners caught the breeze. 
When helms in sunlight shone. 

When masts were on the seas. 
And spears on Marathon. 

His sword was seen to flash 

Where the boldest deeds were done ; 
But it smote without a clash ; 

The stroke was heard by none ! 
His voice was not of those 

That swell'd the rolling blast. 
And his steps fell liush'd like snows — 

'T was the Shade of Theseus pass'd ! 

When banners caught the breeze. 
When helms in sunlight shone, 

When masts were on the seas, 
And spears on Marathon. 

Far sweeping through the foe. 

With a liery charge he bore ; 
And the Mede left many a bow 

On the sounding ocean-shore. 
And the foaming waves grew red. 

And the sails were crowded fast, 
When the sons of Asia fled. 

As the Shade of Theseus pass'd ! 

When banners caught the breeze, 
When helms in sunlight shone, 

When masts were on the seas. 
And spears on Marathon. 



ANCIENT GREEK SONG OF EXILE. 

Where is the summer, with her golden sun ? — 
That festal glory hath not pass'd from earth: 

For me alone the laughing day is done ! 
Where is the summer with her voice of mirth ? 
— Far in my own bright land ! 

Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe 
and dje 
On the green hills ? — the founts, from sparry 
caves 
Through the wild places bearing melody ? 
The reeds, low whispering o'er tlie river waves ? 
— Far in my own bright land ! 

Where are the temples, through the dim wood 
shining, 
The virgin-dances, and the choral strains ? 
Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining 
The spring's first roses for their sylvan fanes? 
— Far in my own bright land ! 

Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs. 
The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades? 

The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs. 

And the pine forests, and the olive shades? 

— Far in my own bright land ! 

Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers. 
The Dryad's footsteps, and the minstrel's 
dreams ? — 
Oh ! that my life were as a southern flower's ! 
I might not languish then by these chill streams, 
Far from my own bright land ! 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



303 



GREEK FUNERAL CHANT OR 

MYRIOLOGUE. 



"Les Chants Funebres par lesquels on deplore en 
Grece la mort de ses proches, prennent le nom particu- 
lier de Myriologia, comme qui dirait, Discours de lamen- 
tation, complaintes. Un malade vient-il de rcndre le 
dernier soupir, sa femme, sa mere, ses tilles, ses sojurs, 
celles, en un mot, de ses plus proches parentes qui sent 
la, lui ferment les yeux et la bouche, en epanchant lihre- 
ment, chacuno selon son naturel et sa mesure de ten- 
dresse pour le defunt, la douleur qu'elle ressent de sa 
perle. Ce premier devoir rempli, elles se retirent toutes 
chez une de leurs parentes ou de leurs amies. La elles 
changent'de vetemens, s'habillent de blanc, comme pour 
la ceremonie nuptiale, avec cette diSerence. qu'elles 
gardent la tete nue, les cheveux epars et pendants. Ces 
apprets termines, les parentes reviennent dans leur parure 
de deuil; toutes se rangent en circle autour du mort, et 
leur douleur s'exhale de nouveau, et, comme la pre- 
miere fois, sans regie et sans contrainte. A ces plaintes 
spontanees succedent bientot des lamentations d'une 
autre espece: ce aonths Myriologiics. Ordinairement 
c'est la plus proche parente qui prononce le sien la pre- 
miere ; apres elle les autres parentes, les amies, les 
simples voisines. Les Myriologues sont toujours com- 
poses et chantes par les femmes. lis sont toujours im- 
provises, toujour? en vers, et toujours chantes sur un air 
qui difiere d'un lieu a un autre, mais qui, dans un lieu 
donne, reste invariablement consacre a ce genre de 

poesie." Chants Fopulaircs de la Grcce Moderne, 

par C. Fauricl. 

A WAIL was heard around the bed, the death-bed 

of the young, 
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful 

mother sung. — 
"lanthis! dost thou sleep? — Thou sleep's! ! — but 

this is not the rest, 
The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillow'd 

on my breast ! 
I lull'd thee not to this repose, lanthis! my sweet 

son I 
As in thy glowing childliood's time by twilight I 

have done ! — 
How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee 

now? 
And that I die not, seeing death on tliy pale glo- 
rious brow ? 

" I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair 

and brave ! 
I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the 

grave ! 
Though mournfully thy smile is fix'd, and heavily 

thine eye 
Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved 

to lie ; 
And fast is bound the springing step, that seem'd 

on breezes borne. 
When to thy couch I came and said, — ' Wake, 

hunter, wake I 'tis Inorn !' 
Yet art thou lovely still, my fiower ! untouch 'd by 

slow decay, — 
And I, the wither'd stem, remain — I would that 

grief might slay ! 

" Oh! ever when I met thy look, I knew that this 

would be ! 
I knew too well that length of days was not a 

gift for thee ! 
I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing 

high ;— 
A voice came whispering to ray soul, and told me 

thou must die ! 
That thou must die, my fearless one ! where swords 

were flashing red. — 
Why doth a mother live to say — My first-born and 

my dead ? 
They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of 

victory won — 
Speak thou, and I will hear! my child, lanthis! 

my sweet son !" 



A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed 
of the young, 

A fair-hair'd bride the Funeral Chant amidst her 
weeping sung.— 

" lanthis ! look'st thou not on me ?— Can love in- 
deed be tied? 

When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately 
head? 

I would that I had follow'd thee, lanthis, my be- 
loved ! 

And stood as woman oft hath stood where faith- 
ful hearts are proved ! ' 

That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled at 
thy side — 

It would have been a blessed thing together had 
we died ! 

"But where was I when thou didst fall beneath 

the fatal sword ? 
Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at tlie peace- 
ful board? 
Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow 

of the vine, 
Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy 

shrine ? 
And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops 

from tliy heart 
Fast gushing like a mountain-spring !— and couldst 

thou thus depart ? 
Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy 

fleeting breath ? — 
Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have 

been in death ! 

" Yes ! I was with thee when the dance through 

mazy rings was led, 
And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and 

when the feast was spread ! 
But not where noble blood flow'd forth, where 

sounding javelins flew — 
Why did I hear love's first sweet words, and not 

its last adieu ? 
What now can breathe of gladness more, what 

scene, what hour, what tone ? 
The blue skies fade with all their lights, they fade, 

since thou art gone I 
Ev'n that must leave me, that still face, by all my 

tears unmoved- 
Take me from this dark world with thee, lanthis! 

my beloved!" 

A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed 

of the young. 
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful 

sister sung. 
" lanthis ! brother of my soul !— oh ! where are now 

the days 
That laugh'd among the deep green hills, on all 

our infant plays? 
When we two sported by the streams, or track'd 

them to their source. 
And like a stag's, the rocks along, was thy fleet 

fearless course ! — 
I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills 

descend, 
I see thy bounding step no more— my brother and 

my friend ! 

" I come with flowers— for Spring is come !— Lm- 

this I art thou here ? 
I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them 

on thy bier! 
Thou shouldst be crown'd with victory's crown — 

but oh ! more meet they seem, 
The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the 

stream ! 
More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus 

early low — 
Alas ! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sun- 
shine's glow: 
The golden glow that through thy heart was wont 

such joy to send, — 
Woe ! that it smiles, and not for thee !— my brother 

and my friend!" 



304 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



THE PARTING SONG. 



This piece is founded on a tale related by Fauriel, in 
his " Chansons Populaireg de la Grace Moderne," and 
accompanied by some very interesting particulars re- 
specting the extempore parting songs, or songs of expa- 
triation, as he informs us they are called, in which the 
modern Greeks are accustomed to pour forth their feel- 
ings on bidding farewell to their country and friends. 



A YOUTH went forth to exile, from a home 
Such as to early thought gives images, 
The longest treasured, and most oft recall'd. 
And brightest kept, of love; — a mountain home, 
That, with the murmur of its rocking pines 
And sounding waters, first in childhood's heart 
Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy, 
And half unconscious prayer ; — a Grecian home, 
With the transparence of blue skies o'erhung, 
And, through the dimness of its olive shades. 
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam 
Of shining pillars from the fanes of old. 

And this was what he left ! — Yet many leave 
Far more : — the glistening eye, that first from theirs 
Call'd out the soul's bright smile ; the gentle hand, 
Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps 
To where the violets lay ; the tender voice 
That earliest taught them what deep melody 
Lives in affection's tones. — He left not these. 
Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part 
With all a mother's love 1— A bitterer grief 
Was his— To part unloved /—of her unloved, 
That should have breathed upon his heart, like 

spring 
Fosterihg its young faint flowers ! 

Yet had he friends, 
And they went forth to cheer him on his way 
Unto the parting spot ; — and she too went. 
That mother, tearless for her youngest-born. 
The parting spot was reach'd : — a lone deep glen, 
Holy, perchance, of yore, for cave and fount 
Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes ; and above. 
The silence of the blue, still, upper Heaven 
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore 
Their crowning snows.— Upon a rock he sprung. 
The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze 
Through the wild laurels back ; but then a light 
Broke on the stern, proud sadness of his eye, 
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips 
A burst of passionate song. 

" Farewell, farewell ! 

" I hear thee, O thou rushing stream! — thou'rt 
from my native dell, 

Thou'rt bearing thence a mournful sound — a mur- 
mur of farewell ! 

And fare iAce well— flow on, my stream! flow on, 
thou bright and free ! 

I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments 
for me : 

But I have been a thing unloved, from childhood's 
loving years. 

And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast 
known my tears ; 

The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my se- 
cret tears have known ; 

The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever 
wept alone ! 

" I see thee once again, my home ! thou'rt there 
amidst thy vines. 

And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of sum- 
mer shines. 

It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering 
through thy groves. 

The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour 
the mother loves ! — 

The hour the mother loves ! — for me beloved it hath 
not been ; 

Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smil'st, a blessed 
scene ! 



Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant 

years will come — 
Yet what but as the dead to thee, shall I be then, 

my home? 

" Not as the dead !— no, not the dead! — We speak 

of them — we keep 
Their names, like light that must not fade, within 

our bosoms deep ! 
We hallow ev'n the lyre they touch'd, we love the 

lay they sung. 
We pass with softer step the place they fill'd our 

band among ! 
But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that 

leaves on earth 
No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its 

birth ! 
I go ! — the echo of the rock a thousand songs may 

swell 
When mine is a forgotten voice. — Woods, moun- 
tains, home, farewell ! 

" And farewell, mother! — I have borne in lonely 
silence long. 

But now the current of my soul grows passionate 
and strong ! 

And I will speak ! though but the wind that wan- 
ders through the sky. 

And but the dark, deep-rustling pines and rolling 
streams reply. 

Yes! I Avill speak! — within my breast whate'er 
hath seem'd to be. 

There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have 
gush'd for thee ! 

Brightly it would have gush'd, but thou, my mo- 
ther ! thou hast thrown 

Back on the forests and the wilds what should 
have been thine own 

"Then fare thee well! Heave thee not in loneli- 
ness to pine. 

Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer 
brow than mine ! 

Forgive me that thou couldst not love ! — it may be 
that a tone 

Yet from my burning heart may pierce through 
thine, when I am gone ! 

And thou, perchance, may'st weep for him on 
whom thou ne'er hast smiled. 

And the grave give his birthright back to thy neg- 
lected child ! 

Might but my spirit then return, and 'midst its kin- 
dred dwell, 

And quench its thirst with love's free tears ! — 'T is 
all a dream— farewell !" 

" Farewell !— the echo died with that deep word, 
Yet died not so the late repentant pang 
By the strain quicken'd in the mother's breast ! 
There had pass'd many changes o'er her brow. 
And cheek, and eye ; but into one bright flood 
Of tears at last all melted ; and she fell 
On the glad bosom of her child, and cried, 
" Return, return, my son !" — The echo caught 
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again, 
Murmuring — " Return, my son !" - 



THE SUUOTE MOTHER. 

It is related, in a French Life of Ali Pacha, that sev- 
eral of the Suliote women, on the advance of the Turk- 
ish troops into their mountain fastnesses, assembled on a 
lofty summit, and after chanting a wild song, preci- 
pitated themselves, with their children, into the chasm 
below, to avoid becoming the slaves of the enemy. 

She stood upon the loftiest peak, 

Amidst the clear blue sky, 
A bitter smile was on her cheek, 

And a dark flash in her eye. 

" Dost thou see them, boy ? — through the dusky 

pines 
Dost thou see where the foeman's armour shines? 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



305 



Hast thou cauglit the gleam of the conqueror's 

crest ? 
My babe, that I cradled on my breast ! 
Wouldst tliou spring from thy mother's arms with 

joy? 
— Tliat sight hath cost thee a father, my boy 1" 

For in the rocky strait beneath 

Lay Siiliote sire and son ; 
They had heap'd liigh the piles of death 

Before the pass was won. 

" They have cross'd the torrent, and on they come ! 
Woe for the mountain hearth and home ! 
There, where the hunter laid by his spear. 
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear, 
There, where I sang thee, fair babe ! to sleep, 
Naught but the blood-stain our trace shall keep !" 

And now the horn's loud blast was heard, 

And now the cymbal's clang. 
Till ev'n the upper air was stirr'd, 

As cliff and hollow rang. 

" Hark ! they bring music, my joyous child ! 

What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild ! 

Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire, 

As if at a glance of thine armed sire ? — 

Still '.—be thou still ! — there are brave men low — 

Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now !" 

But nearer came the clash of steel, 

And louder swell'd the horn, 
And farther yet the tambour's peal 

Through the dark pass was borne. 

" Hear'st thou the sound of their savage mirth ? — 
Boy ! thou wert free when I gave thee birth, — 
Free, and how cherish'd, my warrior's son ! 
He too hath bless'd thee, as I have done ! 
Ay, and unchain'd must his loved ones be — 
Freedom, young Suliote ! for thee and me !" 

And from the arrowy peak she sprung, 
And fast the fair child bore : — 

A veil upon the wind was flung, 
A cry— and all was o'er ! 



THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD. 



The following piece is founded on a beautiful part 
of the Greek funeral service, in which relatives and 
friends are invited to embrace the deceased (whose face 
is uncovered) and to bid their final adieu. .See Chris- 
tian Researches in the Mediterranean. 

'T is hard to lay into the earth 

A countenance so benign \ a form that walk'd 
But yesterday so stately o'er the earth ! 

JVilson. 



Come near 1 — ere yet the dust 
Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow. 
Look on your brother, and embrace him now, 

In still and solemn trust ! 
Come near! — once more let kindred lips be press'd 
On his cold cheek ; then bear him to his rest ! 

Look yet on this young face ! 
What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone, 
Leave of its image, ev'n where most it shone, 

Gladdening its hearth and race ? 
Dim grows the semblance on man's heart im- 

press'd — 
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest ! 

Ye weep, and it is well ! 
For tears befit earth's partings ! — Yesterday, 
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay, 

And sunshine seem'd to dwell 
Where'er he moved — the welcome and the bless'd ! — 
Now gaze ! and bear the silent unto rest ! 

Look yet on him, whose eye 
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth ! 
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth. 

The beings born to die ? — 

39 



But not where death has power may love be 

bless'd — 
Come near! and bear ye the beloved to rest ! 

How may the mother's heart 
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again 7 
The spring's rich promise hath been given in vain, 

The lovely must depart ! 
Is he not gone, our brightest and our best ? 
Come near ! and bear the early-call'd to rest ! 

Look on him ! is he laid 
To slumber from the harvest or the chase ?— 
Too still and sad the smile upon his face. 

Yet that, ev'n that, must fade ! 
Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest, — 
Come near ! and bear the mortal to his rest ! 

His voice of mirth hath ceased 
Amidst the vineyards ! there is left no place 
For him whose dust receives your vain embrace, 

At the gay bridal feast ! 
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast ; 
Come near ! weep o'er him ! bear him to his rest ! 

Yet mourn ye not as they 
Whose spirit's light is quench'd !— for him the past 
Is seal'd. He may not fall, he may not cast 

His birthright's hope away ! 
All is not here of our beloved and bless'd — 
Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest ! 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. 



Wh.vt hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells? 
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main I— 
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells, 
Bright things which gleam'd unreck'd-of, and in 
vain I — 
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 
We ask not such from thee. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! — what wealth 
untold, 
Far down, and shining through their stillness 
lies ! 
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold. 
Won from ten thousand royal argosies !— 
Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful 
main ! — 

Earth claims not these again. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! — thy waves have 
roll'd 
Above the cities of a world gone by ! 
Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old, 

Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry. — 
Dash o'er them, ocean ! in thy scornful play '. 
Man yields them to decay. 

Yet more ! the billows and the depths have more ! 

High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast ! 
They hear not now the booming waters roar, 

The battle-thunders will not break their rest. — 
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! 
Give back the true and brave ! 

Give back the lost and lovely !— those for whom 

The place was kept at board and hearth so long! 

The prayer went up through midnight's breathless 

gloom, 

And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song I 

Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown — 

But all is not thine own. 

To thee the love of woman hath gone down. 

Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head. 

O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery 

crown. 

Yet must thou hear a voice— Restore the dead ! 

Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ! 

Kestore the dead, thou sea ! 



506 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. 



Alas '. the mother that him bare. 
If she had been in presence there, 
In his wan cheeks and sunburnt hair, 

She had not known her child, 

Marmian. 



Rest, pilgrim, rest !— thou'rt from the Syrian land, 

Tiiou'rt from the wild and wondrous east, I know 
By the long-wither'd palm-branch in thy hand, 

And by the darkness of thy sunburnt brow. 
Alas ! the bright, the beautiful, who part. 

So full of hope, for that far country's bourne ! 
Alas ! the weary and the changed in heart. 

And dimm'd in aspect, who like thee return ! 

Thou'rt faint — stay, rest thee from thy toils at last : 

Through the high chestnuts lightly plays the 
breeze, 
The stars gleam out, the ^ve hour is pass'd, 

The sailor's hymn hath died along the seas. 
Thou'rt faint and worn— hear'st thou the fountain 
welling 

By the gray pillars of yon ruin'd shrine? 
Seest thou the dewy grapes, before thee swelling ? 

— He that hath left me train'd that loaded vine ! 

He was a child when thus the bower he wove, 

(Oh I hath a day fled since his childhood's time ?) 
That I might sit and hear the sound I love. 

Beneath its shade — the convent's vesper-chime. 
And sit thou there ! — for he was gentle ever, 

With his glad voice he would have welcomed 
thee, 
And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parch'd lips' 
fever — 

There in his place thou'rt resting— where is he 7 

If I could hear that laughing voice again. 

But once again ! — how oft it wanders by, 
In the still hours, like some remember'd strain. 

Troubling the heart with its wild melody ! — 
Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim ! hast thou seen 

In that far land, the chosen land of yore, 
A youth — my Guido— with the fiery mien, 

And the dark eye of this Italian shore ? 

The dark, clear, lightning eye!— on Heaven and 
earth 

It smiled— as if man were not dust it smiled ! 
The very air seem'd kindling with his mirth, 

And I— my heart grew young before my child! 
My blessed child ! — I had but him— yet he 

Fill'd all my home ev'n with o'erflowing joy, 
Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free — 

Where is he no w ? — my pride, my flower, my boy ! 

His sunny childhood melted from my sight. 

Like a spring dew-drop — then his forehead wore 
A prouder look — his eye a keener light — 

I knew these woods might be his world no more ! 
He loved me — but he left me ! — thus they go, 

Whom we have rear'd, watch'd, bless'd, too 
much adored ! 
He heard the trumpet of the Red-Cross blow. 

And bounded from me with his father's sword ! 

Thou weep'st— I tremble — thou hast seen the slain 

Pressing a bloody turf; the young and fair, 
With their pale beauty strewing o'er the plain 

Where hosts have met — speak ! answer ! — was 
he there ? 
Oh ! hath his smile departed ?— Could the grave 

Shut o'er those bursts of bright and tameless 
glee ?- 
No ! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave — 

That look gives hope — I knew it could not be ! 

Still weep'st thou, wanderer?— some fond mother's 
glance 

O'er thee too brooded in thine early years — 
Think'st thou of her, whose gentle eye perchance 

Bathed all thy faded hair vvith parting tears ? 
Speak, for thy tears disturb me ! — what art thou ? 

Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on ? 
Look up !— oh ! is it — that wan cheek and brow ! — 

Is it — alas ! yet joy ! — my son, my son ! 



BRING FLOWERS. 



Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, 
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is pour'd ; 
Bring flowers ! they are springing in wood and vale, 
Their breath floats out on the southern gale. 
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the 

rose. 
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. 

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path- 
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath! 
He comes with the spoils of nations back, 
The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track. 
The turf looks red where he won the day — 
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way! 

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell, 
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell ; 
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky, 
And the bright world shut from his languid eye ; 
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours, 
And a dream of his youth— bring him flowers, wild 
flowers ! 

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear ! 
They were born to blush in her shining hair. 
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth, 
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth. 
Her place is now by another's side — 
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride ! 



Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed, 

A crown for the brow of the early dead ! 

For this through its leaves hath the white rose 

burst. 
For this in the woods was the violet nursed ! 
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours. 
They are love's last gift — bring ye flovi^ers, pale 

flowers ! 

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in 

prayer. 
They are nature's offering, their place is there! 
They speak of hope to the fainting heart. 
With a voice of promise they come and part. 
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours. 
They break forth in glory — bring flowers, bright 

flowers ! 



THEKLA'S SONG; OR THE VOICE OF 
A SPIRIT. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. 



This Bong is said to have been composed by Schiller 
in answer to the inquiries of his friends respecting the 
fate of Tliekla, whose beautiful character is withdrawn 
from the tragedy of " Wallenstein's Death," after her 
resolution to visit the grave of her lover is made known. 
■ 'T is not merely 



The human being's jiride that peoples space 
With life and mystical predominance; 
Since likewise for the stricken heart of love 
This visible nature, and this common world. 
Are all too narrow." 

CoUridge's Translation of Wallenstein, 



Ask'st thou my home ? — my pathway wouldst thou 
know. 

When from thine eye my floating shadow pass'd? 
Was not my work fulflll'd and closed below ? 

Had I not lived and loved ?— my lot was cast. 

Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is gone. 
That melting into song her soul away. 

Gave the .spring-breeze what witch'd thee in its 
tone ?— 
But while she loved, she lived, in that deep lay ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



307 



Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not 
found ?— 
Yes ! we are one, oh I trust me, we have met. 
Where naught again may part what love hatli 
bound, 
Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret. 

There shalt tJwu find us, there with us be blest. 
If as our love thy love is pure and true ! 

There dwells my father,* sinless and at rest, 
Where the fierce murderer may no more pursue. 

And well he feels, no error of the dust 
Drew to the stars of Heaven his mortal ken, 

There it is with us, ev'n as is our trust. 
He that believes, is near the holy then. 

There shall each feeling beautiful and high, 
Keep the sweet pi-omise of its earthly day ; — 

Oh ! fear thou not to dream with waking eye ! 
There lies deep meaning oft in childish play. 



THE REVELLERS. 



KiNQ, joyous chords !— ring out again ! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 

They are here— the fair face and the careless heart, 

And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part. — 

But I met a dimly mournful glance. 

In a sudden turn of the flying dance ; 

I heard the tone of a heavy sigh. 

In a pause of the thrilling melody ! 

And it is not well that woe should breathe 

On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath ! — 

Ye that to thought or to grief belong, 

Leave, leave the hall of song ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — but who art thou 
With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young brow. 
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies 
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes? 
Thou hast loved, fair girl ! thou hast loved too well ! 
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell. 
Thou hast pour'd thy heart's rich treasures forth. 
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth ! 
Mourn on ! — yet come thou not here the while. 
It is but a pain to see thee smile ! 
There is not a tone in our songs for thee — 
Home with thy sorrows flee ! 

Ring, joyous chords! — ring out again! — 
But what dost thou with the Revel's train ? 
A silvery voice through the soft air floats. 
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes: 
There are bright young faces that pass thee by, 
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye ! 
Away! there 's a void in thy yearning breast, 
Thou weary man I wilt thou here find rest 1 
Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled. 
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead I 
Thou art but more lone 'midst the sounds of 
mirth — 

Back to thy silent hearth ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring forth again ! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! — 

But thou, though a reckless mien be thine. 

And thy cup be crown'd with the foaming wine, 

By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud. 

By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled 

cloud, 
I know thee !— it is but the wakeful fear 
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here ! 
I know thee !— thou fearest the solemn night. 
With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might ! 
There 's a tone in her voice which thou fain 

would'st shun. 
For it asks what the secret soul hath done ! 
And thou— there's a dark weight on thine — 

away ! — 

Back to thy home, and pray ! 

Ring, joyous chords!— ring out again ! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 

And bring fi-esli wreaths!— we will banish all 

Save the free in heart from our festive hall. 



On ! through the maze of the fleet dance, on ! 
But where are the young and the lovely ?— gone! 
Where are the brows with the red-rose crown'd. 
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound ? 
And the vi'aving locks and the flying feet. 
That still should be where the mirthful meet !— 
They are gone— they are fled— they are parted all — 
Alas ! the forsaken hall I 



THE CONQUEROR'S SLEEP. 



Sleep, 'midst thy banners furi'd ! 
Yes ! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying. 
With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing. 
Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the 

world ! 
Sleep while the babe sleeps on its mother's breast— 
Oh ! strong is night— for thou too art at rest ! 

Stillness hath smooth'd thy brow. 
And now might love keep timid vigils by thee, 
Now might the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh 

thee. 
Alike unconscious and defenceless thou ! 
Tread lightly, watchers !— now the field is won, 
Break not the rest of nature's weary son ! 

Perchance some lovely dream 
Back from the stormy fight thy soul is bearing. 
To the green places of thy boyish daring. 
And all the windings of thy native stream ;— 
Why, this were joy !— upon the tented plain. 
Dream on, thou Conqueror !— be a child again ! 

But thou wilt wake at morn, 
With thy strong passjons to the conflict leaping. 
And thy dark, troubled thoughts all earth o'er- 

sweeping ; 
So wilt thou rise, oh ! thou of woman born ! 
And put thy terrors on, till none may dare 
Look upon thee— the tired one, slumbering there ! 

Why, so the peasant sleeps 
Beneath his vine ! — and man must kneel before 

thee. 
And for his birthright vainly still implore thee !— 
Shalt thou be stay'd because thy brother weeps ? 
Wake ! and forget that 'midst a dreaming world. 
Thou hast lain thus, with all thy banners furi'd ! 

Forget that thou, ev'n thou, 
Hast feebly shiver'd when the wind pass'd o'er thee. 
And sunk to rest upon the earth which bore thee. 
And felt the night-dew chill thy fever'd brow ! 
Wake with the trumpet, with the spear press on !,— 
Yet shall the dust take home its mortal son. 



OUR LADY'S WELL.* 



Fount of the woods ! thou art hid no more. 
From Heaven's clear eye, as in time of yore ! 
For the roof hath sunk from thy mossy walls. 
And the sun's free glance on thy slumber falls ; 
And the dim tree-shadows across thee pass. 
As the boughs are sway'd o'er thy silvery glass ; 
And the reddening leaves to thy breast are blown, 
When the autumn wind hath a stormy tone ; 
And thv bubbles rise to the flashing rain- 
Bright Fount ! thou art nature's own again ! 
Fount of the vale! thou art sought no more 
By the pilgrim's foot, as in time of yore. 
When he came from afar, his beads to tell. 
And to chant his hymn at Our Lady's Well. 
There is heard no ./Sue through thy bowers. 
Thou art gleaming lone 'midst thy water-flowers ! 
But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave. 
And there may the reaper his forehead lave. 
And the woodman seeks thee not in vain — 
Bright fount ! thou art Nature's own again I 

» A beautiful sprins in Hie woods rear St. Asaph, formerly co- 
vered in with a chapel, rmw in ruins. It was dedicated to the Vir- 
gin, and, according to I'eunaiit, much the resort of pilgrims. 



308 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Fount of the Virgin's ruin'd shrine ! 
A voice that speaks of the past is thine ! 
It mingles the tone of a thoughtful sigh, 
With the notes that ring tlirough the laughing sky ; 
'Midst the mirthful song of the summer-bird. 
And the sound of the breeze, it will yet be heard ! 
Wliy is it that thus we may gaze on thee, 
To the brilliant sunshine sparkling free ? — 
'Tis that all on earth is of Time's domain — 
He hath made thee Nature's own again ! 

Fount of the chapel with ages gray ! 
Thou art springi ng freshly amidst decay ! 
Thy rites are closed, and thy cross lies low, 
And the changeful hours breathe o'er thee now ! 
Yet if at thine altar one holy thought 
In man's deep spirit of old hath wrought ; 
If peace to the mourner hath here been given, 
Or prayer, from achasten'd heart, to Heaven, 
Be the spot still hallow'd while Time shall reign, 
Who hath made thee Nature's own again ! 



Give me to hail thy sunshine, 
With song and spirit free ; 

Or in a purer air than this. 
May that next meeting be ! 



THE PARTING OF SUMMER. 



Thou'et bearing hence thy roses. 

Glad Summer, fare thee well ! 
Thou'rt singing thy last melodies 

In every wood and dell 

But ere the golden sunset 

Of thy latest lingering day. 
Oh ! tell me, o'er this chequer'd earth, 

How hast thou pass'd away ? 

Brightly, sweet Summer ! brightly 

Thine hours have floated by. 
To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs, 

The rangers of the sky. 

And brightly in the forests. 

To the wild deer wandering free ; 
And brightly, 'midst the garden flowers, 

Is the happy murmuring bee : 

But how to human hosoms, 

With all their hopes and fears. 
And thoughts that make them eagle-wings, 

To pierce the unborn years ? 

Sweet Summer 1 to tiie captive 
Tliou hast flown in burning dreams 

Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves, 
And the blue rejoicing streams ! — 

To the wasted and the weary 

On the bed of sickness bound. 
In swift delirious fantasies, 

That changed with every sound ; — 

To the sailor on the billows. 

In longings, wild and vain, 
For the gushing founts and breezy hills, 

And the homes of earth again ! 

And unto me, glad Summer ! 

How hast thou flown to me ? 
J\Jy chainless footstep naught hath kept 

From thy haunts of song and glee. 

Thou hast flown in wayward visions. 

In memories of the dead — 
In shadows, from a troubled heart. 

O'er thy sunny pathway shed : 

In brief and sudden strivings. 

To fling a weight aside — 
'Midst these thy melodies have ceased, 

And all thy roses died. 

But, oh ! thou gentle Summer ! 

If I greet thy flowers once more, 
Bring me again the buoyancy 

Wherewith my soul should soar ! 



THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS. 



Sing aloud 

Old Songs, the precious Music of the Heart. 

W<irdswortK 

Sing them upon the sunny hills. 

When days are long and bright, 
And the blue gleam of shining rills 

Is loveliest to the sight ! 
Sing them along the misty moor. 

Where ancient hunters roved. 
And swell them through the torrent's roar. 

The songs our fathers loved ! 

The songs their souls rejoiced to hear 

When harps were in the hall. 
And each proud note made lance and spear 

Thrill on the banner'd wall : 
The songs that through our valleys green. 

Sent on from age to age, 
Like his own river's voice, have been 

The peasant's heritage. 

The reaper sings them when the vale 

Is fiird with plumy sheaves ; 
The woodman, by the starlight pale, 

Cheer'd homeward through the leaves; 
And unto them the glancing oars 

A joyous measure keep. 
Where the dark rocks that crest our shores 

Dash back the foaming deep. 

So let it be !— a light they shed 

O'er each old fount and grove ; 
A memory of the gentle dead, 

A lingering spell of love. 
Murnmring the names of mighty men, 

They bid our streams roll on. 
And link high thoughts to every glen 

Where valiant deeds were done. 

Teach them your children round the hearth, 

When evening-fires burn clear. 
And in the fields of harvest-mirth. 

And on the hills of deer : 
So shall each unforgotten word, 

When far those loved ones roam. 
Call back the hearts w hich once it stirr'd, 

To childhood's holy home. 

The green woods of their native land 

Shall whisper in the strain, 
The voices of their household band. 

Shall breathe their names again ; 
The heathery heights in vision rise 

Where, like the stag, they roved — 
Sing to your sons those melodies. 

The songs your fathers loved ! 



THE WORLD IN THE OPEN AIR. 



Come, while in freshness and dew it lies, 
To the world that is under the free, blue skies ! 
Leave ye man's home, and forget his care- 
There breathes no sigh on the day-spring's air. 

Come to the woods in whose mossy dells, 
A light all made for the poet dwells ; 
A light, colour'd softly by tender leaves. 
Whence the primrose a mellower hue receives. 

The stock-dove is there in the beechen-tree, 
And the lulling tone of the honey-bee ; 
And tire voice of cool waters 'midst feathery fern, 
Shedding sweet sounds from some liidden urn. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



309 



There is life, there is youth, tliere is tameless 

mirth. 
Where the streams, with the lilies they wear, have 

birth ; 
There is peace where the alders are whispering low; 
Come from man's dwellings with all their woe ! 

Yes ! we will come — we will leave behind 
The homes and sorrows of human kind ; 
It is well to rove where the river leads 
Its bright, blue vein along sunny meads : 

It is well through the rich, wild woods to go. 
And to pierce the haunts of the fawn and doe ; 
And to hear the gushing of gentle springs. 
When the heart has been fretted by worldly stings ! 

And to watch the colours that flit and pass. 
With insect wings through the wavy grass ; 
And the silvery gleams o'er the ash-tree's bark. 
Borne in with a breeze through the foliage dark. 

Joyous and far shall our wanderings be. 
As the flight of birds o'er the glittering sea ; 
To the woods, to the dingles where violets blow. 
We will bear no memory of earthly woe. 

But if, by the forest-brook, we meet 
A line like the pathway of former feet ; — 
If 'midst the hills, in some lonely spot. 
We reach the gray ruins of tower or cot ; — 

If the cell where a hermit of old hath pray'd. 
Lift up its cross through the solemn shade ; — 
Or if some nook, where the wild-flowers wave. 
Bear token sad of a mortal grave, — 

Doubt not but there will our steps be stay'd, 
There our quick spirits awhile delay'd ; 
There will thought fix our impatient eyes. 
And win back our hearts to their sympathies. 

For what, though the mountains and skies be fair, 
Steep'd in soft hues of the summer-air,— 
'Tis the soul of man, by its hopes and dreams. 
That lights up all nature with living gleams. 

Where it hath suffered and nobly striven, 
Where it hath pour'd forth its vows to Heaven ; 
Where to repose it hath brightly past. 
O'er this green earth there is glory cast. 

And by that soul, amidst groves and rills, 
And flocks that feed on a thousand hills, 
Birds of the forest, and flowers of the sod, 
We, only we, may be link'd to God ! 



KINDRED HEARTS 



Oh ! ask not, hope thou not too much 

Of sympathy below; 
Few are the hearts whence one same touch 

Bids the sweet fountains flow! 
Few— and by still conflicting powers 

Forbidden here to meet — 
Such ties would make this life of ours 

Too fair for aught so fleet. 

It may be that thy brother's eye 

Sees not as thine, which turns 
In such deep reverence to the sky. 

Where the rich sunset burns; 
It may be that the bi-eath of spring, 

Born amidst violets lone, 
A rapture o'er thy soul can bring — 

A dream, to his unknown. 

The tune that speaks of other times— 

A sorrowful delight ! 
The melody of distant chimes. 

The sound of waves by night ; 
The wind that, with so many a tone. 

Some chord within can thrill, — 
These may have language all thine own, 

To him a mystery still. 



Yet scorn thou not for this, the true 

And steadfast love of years ; 
The kindly, that from childhood grew, 

The faithful to thy tears ! 
If there be one that o'er the dead 

Hath in thy grief borne part. 
And watch'd through sickness by thy bed, 

Call his a kindred heart ! 

But for those bonds all perfect made, 

Wherein bright spirits blend. 
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade, 

With the same breeze that bend. 
For that full bliss of thought allied. 

Never to mortals given, — 
Oh ! lay thy lovely dreams aside, 

Or lift them unto heaven. 



THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF 
THE NILE. 



In sunset's light, o'er Afric thrown, 

A vv'anderer proudly stood 
Beside the well-spring, deep and lone. 

Of Egypt's awful flood ; 
The cradle of that mighty birth. 
So long a hidden thing to earth ! 

He heard its life's first murmuring sound, 

A low mysterious tone ; 
A music sought, but never found. 

By kings and warriors gone ; 
He listen'd— and his heart beat high — 
That was the song of victory ! 

The rapture of a conqueror's mood 
Rush'd burning through his frame, — 

The depths of that green solitude 
Its torrents could not tame ; 

Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile — 

Round those far fountains of the Nile. 

Night came with stars :— across his soul 

There swept a sudden change. 
E'en at the pilgrim's glorious goal 

A shadow dark and strange 
Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall 
O'er triumph's hour— and is this all?* 

No more than this !— what seem'd it now 

First by that spring to stand? 
A thousand streams of lovelier flow 

Bathed his own mountain land ! 
Whence far o'er waste and ocean track. 
Their wild sweet voices call'd him back. 

They call'd him back to many a glade, 

His childhood's haunt of play. 
Where brightly through the beechen shade 

Their waters glanced away; 
They call'd him, with their sounding waves. 
Back to his fathers' hills and graves. 

But darkly mingling with the thought 

Of each familiar scene. 
Rose up a fearful vision, fraught 

With all that lay between ; 
The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom, 
The whirling sands, the red simoom ! 



* A remarkable description of feeliners thus fluctuating from tri- 
umph to despondency, is given in Briice's Abyssinian Travels. The 
buoyant e.'CuUalion of his spirits on arriving at the source of the 
Nile, was almost immediately succeeded by a gloom, which he 
thus pourtrays : " I was, at that very moment, in possession of what 
had for many years been the principal object of my ambition and 
wishes ; indifference, which, from the usual infirmity of human 
nature, follows, at least for a time, complete enjoyment, had taken 
place of it. The marsh and the fountains of the Nile, upon com- 
parison with the rise of many of our rivers, became now a trifling 
object in my sight. I remembered that magnificent scene in my 
own native country, where the Tweed, Clyde, and Annan, rise in 
one hill. I began, in my sorrow, to treat the inquiry about the 
source of tlie Nile as a violent effort of a distempered fancy." 



310 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Where was the glow of power and pride 7 

The spirit born to roam? 
His alter'd heart within him died 

With yearnings for his home 1 
All vainly struggling to repress 
That gush of painful tenderness. 

He wept— the stars of Afric's heaven 

Behold his bursting tears, 
E'en on that spot where fate had given 

The meed of toiling years ! — 
Oh, happiness ! how far we flee 
Thine own sweet paths in search of thee ! 



CASABIANCA* 

The boy stood on the burning deck 

Whence all but he ;had fled; 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck, 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames roU'd on — he would not go, 

Without his Father's word ; 
That Father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He call'd aloud :— " Say, Father, say 

If yet ray task is done ?" 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

" Speak, Father !" once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone ! 
And" — but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames roU'd on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath. 

And in his waving hair, 
And look'd from that lone post of death, 

In still, yet brave despair. 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

" My Father ! must I stay?" 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud. 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild. 

They caught the flag on high. 
And stream'd above the gallant child, 

Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound — 

The boy — oh ! where was he ? 
Ask of the winds that far around 

With fragments strew'd the sea ! — 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part — 

But the noblest thing which perish'd there 
Was that young faithful heart i 



THE DIAL OF FLOWERS.t 

'TwAs a lovely thought to mark the hours. 
As they floated in light away, 

By the opening and the folding flowers. 
That laugh to the summer's day. 

Thus had each moment its own rich hue. 
And its graceful cup and bell. 

In whose colour'd vase might sleep the dew, 
Like a pearl in an ocean-shell. 



To such sweet signs might the time have flow'd 

In a golden current on. 
Ere from the garden, man's first abode. 

The glorious guests were gone. 

So might the days have been brightly told — 
Those days of song and dreams — 

When shepherds gather'd their flocks of old, 
By the blue Arcadian streams. 

So in those isles of delight, that rest 

Far off" in a breezeless main. 
Which many a baric, with a weary quest, 

Has sought, but still in vain. 

Yet is not life, in its real flight, 

Mark'd thus— even thus— on earth. 

By the closing of one hope's delight. 
And another's gentle birth ? 

Oh ! let us live, so that flower by flower, 

Shutting in turn, may leave 
A lingerer still for the sunset hour, 

A charm for the shaded eve. 



* Young Casablanca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the 
Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the Battle of the 
Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been aban- 
doned ; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames 
had reached the powder. 

tThis dial was, I believe, formed by Linnasus, and marked the 
hours by the opening and closing, at regular intervals, of the flow- 
ers arranged in it 



OUR DAILY PATHS. 



Naught shall prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
la full of blessings. 

Wordsworth. 



There 's beauty all around our paths, if but our 

watchful eyes 
Can trace it 'midst familiar things, and through 

their lowly guise ; 
We may find it where a hedge-row showers its 

blossoms o'er our way. 
Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the last red 

light of day. 

We find it where a spring shines clear, beneath an 

aged tree. 
With the foxglove o'er the waters' glass borne 

downwards by the bee ; 
Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birchen 

stems is thrown. 
As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses 

green and lone. 

We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross 

the cold, blue sky. 
While soft on icy pool and stream their pencill'd 

shadows lie, 
When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy 

frost-work bound. 
Whence the flitting red-breast shakes a shower of 

crystals to the ground. 

Yes ! beauty dwells in all our paths— but sorrow 

too is there ; 
How oft some cloud within us dims the bright, still 

summer air! 
When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst the 

joyous things. 
That through the leafy places glance on many-co- 

lour'd wings ! 

With shadows from the past we fill the happy 

woodland shades. 
And a mournful memory of the dead is with us in 

the glades ; 
And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo's 

plaintive tone 
Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter 

gone. 

But are we free to do ev'n thus— to wander as we 

will — 
Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er 

the breezy hill ? 
No ! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes bind 

us fast, 
While from their narrow round we see the golden 

day fleet past. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



311 



They hold us from the woodlark's haunts, and vio- 
let dingles, back. 

And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the 
shining river's track ; 

They bar us from our heritage of spring-time, hope, 
and mirth. 

And weigh our burden'd spirits down with the 
cumbering dust of earth. 

Yet should this be ?— Too much, too soon, despond- 

ingly we yield! 
A better'lessonvve are taught by the lilies of the 

field ! 
A sweeter by the birds of heaven— which tell us, 

in their flight. 
Of One that through the desert air for ever guides 

them right. 

Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid 

vain conflicts cease? 
Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy 

hours of peace ; 
And feel that by the lights and clouds through 

which our pathway lies. 
By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training 

for the skies ! 



THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS. 



Silent and mournful sat an Indian chief, 
In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb; 

His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with 
grief. 
And his arms folded in majestic gloom. 

And his bow lay unstrung beneath the mound 

Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around. 

For a pale cross above its greensvv'ard rose, 
Telling the cedars and the pines that there 

Man's heart and hope had struggled vi'ith his woes. 
And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer. 

Now all was hush'd— and Eve's last splendour 
shone 

With a rich sadness on th' attesting stone. 

There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild. 
And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave, 

Asking the tale of its memorial, piled 
Between the forest and the lake's bright wave ; 

Till, as a wind might stir a wither'd oak. 

On the deep dream of age his accents broke. 

And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said — 
"I listen for the words, which, years ago, 

Pass'd o'er these waters: though the voice is fled 
Which made them as a singing fountain's flow, 

Yet, vchen I sit in their long-faded track. 

Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back. 

" Ask'st thou of him, whose house is lone beneath ? 

I was an eagle in my youthful pride. 
When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breath, 

To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side. 
Many the times of flowers have been since then — 
Many, but bringing naught like him again ! 

" Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came, 
O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe ; 

Not the dark glory of the woods to tame. 
Laying their cedars like the corn-stalks low ; 

But to spread tidings of all holy things. 

Gladdening our souls, as with the morning's wings. 

" Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met, 
I and my brethren that from earth are gone, 

Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet 
Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone? 

He told of one, the grave's dark bands who broke. 

And our hearts burn'd within us as he spoke. 

"He told of far and sunny lands, which lie 
Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell : 

Bright must they be ! — for there are none that die, 
And none that weep, and none that say ' Fare- 
well !' 



He came to guide us thither ; — but away 
The Happy call'd him, and he might not stay. 

" We saw him slowly fade, — athirst, perchance, 
For the fresh waters of that lovely clime ; 

Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance, 
And on his gleaming hair no touch of time, — 

Therefore we hoped : — but now the lake looks dim. 

For the green summer comes, — and finds not liim ! 

" We gather'd round him in the dewy hour 
Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree ; 

From his clear voice, at first, the words of power 
Came low, like moanings of a distant sea; 

But sweli'd and shook the wilderness ere long, 

As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong. 

" And then once more they trembled on his tongue, 
And his white eyelids flutter'd, and his head 

Fell back, and niists upon his forehead hung,— 
Know'st thou not how we pass to join the dead ? 

It is enough !— he sank upon my breast— 

Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest ! 

" We buried him where he was wont to pray, 
By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide ; 

We rear'd this Cross in token where he lay. 
For on the Cross, he said, his Lord had died I 

Now hath he surely reach'd, o'er mount and wave, 

That flowery land whose green turf liides no grave. 

" But I am sad !— I mourn the clear light taken 
Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, 

The pathway to the better shore forsaken. 
And the true words forgotten, save by one. 

Who hears them faintly sounding from the past, 

Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast." 

Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling 
eye: — 
" Son of the wilderness ! despair thou not, 
Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by, 

And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot ; 
Heaven darkly works ;— yet where the seed hath 

been 
There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen. 

" Hope on, hope ever !— by the sudden springing 
Of green leaves which tire winter hid so long ; 

And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing, 
After cold silent months, the woods among ; 

And by the rendine of the frozen chains. 

Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains; 

"Deem not the words of light that here were 
spoken. 
But as a lovely song to leave no trace. 
Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be 
broken. 
And the full day-spring rise upon thy race ! 
And fading mists the better path disclose, 
And the wide desert blossom as the rose." 

So by the Cross they parted, in the wild. 
Each fraught with musings for life's after-day, 

Memories to visit one, the forest's child. 
By many a blue stream in its lonely way ; 

And upon'oree, 'midst busy throngs to press 

Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness. 



LAST RITES. 



By the mighty minster's bell. 
Tolling with a sudden swell ; 
By the colours half-mast high. 
O'er the sea hung mournfully ; 
Know, a prince hath died t 

By the drum's dull muffled sound. 
By the arms that sweep the ground, 
By the volleying muskets' tone, 
Speak ye of a soldier gone 
In his manhood's pride. 



312 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



By the chanted psalm that fills 
Reverently the ancient hills,* 
Learn, that from his harvests done, 
Peasants bear a brother on 
To his last repose. 

By the pall of snowy white 
Through the yew-trees gleaming bright ; 
By the garland on the bier. 
Weep ! a maiden claims thy tear — 
Broken ia the rose ! 

Which is the tenderest rite of all ? 
Buried virgin's coronal. 
Requiem o'er the monarch's head, 
Farewell gun for warrior dead. 
Herdsman's funeral hymn ? 

Tells not each of human woe ! 
Each of hope and strength brought low ? 
Number each with holy things. 
If one chastening thought it brings, 
Ere life's day grow dim ! 



THE HEBREW MOTHER. 



The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain. 
When a young mother, with her first-born, thence 
Went up to Zion; for the boy was vovv'd 
Unto the Temple service : — by the hand 
She led him, and her silent soul, the while, 
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye 
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think 
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers. 
To bring before her God. So pass'd they on. 
O'er Judah's hills ; and wheresoe'er the leaves 
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon, 
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs, 
With their cool dimness, cross'd the sultry blue 
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest ; 
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep 
That weigh'd their dark fringe down, to sit and 

watch 
The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose, 
As at a red flower's heart. And where a fount 
Lay like a twilight star 'midst palmy shades. 
Making its bank green gems along the wild, 
There, too, she linger'd, from the diamond wave 
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips, 
And softly parting clusters of jet curls 
To bathe his brow. At last the Fane was reach'd, 
The Earth's One Sanctuary — and rapture hush'd 
Her bosom, as before her, through the day, 
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd 
In light, like floating gold. But when that hour 
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy 
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye 
Beseechingly to hei's, and half in fear 
Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round her 

arm 
Clung even as joy clings — the deep spring-tide 
Of nature then swell'd high, and o'er her child 
Bending, her soul broke forth, in mingled sounds 
Of weeping and sad song. — "Alas !" she cried, 

"Alas ! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me ; 
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes. 

And now fond thoughts arise, 
And silver cords again to earth have w-on me ; 
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart — 

How shall I hence depart ? 

" How the lone paths retrace where thou wert 

playing 
So late, along the mountains, at my side ? 

And I, in joyous pride. 
By every place of flowers my course delaying, 
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair, 

Beholding thee so fair ! 



"And, oh ! the home whence thy bright smile hath 

parted. 
Will it not seem as if the sunny day 
Turn'd from its door away ? 
While through its chambers wandering weary. 

hearted, 
I languish for thy voice, which past me still. 
Went like a singing rill. 

" Underthe palm-trees thou no more shall meetme. 
When from the fount at evening I return, 

With the full water-urn ; 
Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet 

me. 
As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake, 

And watch for thy dear sake. 

" And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round 

thee, 
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed 1 

Wilt thou not vainly spread 
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound 

thee. 
To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, 
A cry which none shall hear 1 

" What have I said, my child ?— Will He not hear 

thee. 
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest t 

Shall He not guard thy rest. 
And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee. 
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with 
joy?- 

Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy. 

" I give thee to thy God— the God that gave thee, 
A well-spring of deep gladness, to my heart ! 

And precious as thou art, 
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, 
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled ! 

And thou shalt be His child. 

"Therefore, farewell !— I go, my soul may fail me, 
As the hart panteth for the water-brooks. 

Yearning for thy sweet looks. — 
But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me; 
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shall dwell. 

The Rock of Strength.— Farewell! 



THE WRECK. 



All night the booming minute-gun 

Had peal'd along the deep, 
And mournfully the rising sun 

Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep. 
A bark from India's coral strand, 

Before the raging blast, 
Had vail'd her topsails to the sand. 

And bow'd her noble mast. 

The queenly ship !— brave hearts had striven, 

And true ones died with her !— 
We saw her mighty cable riven. 

Like floating gossamer. 
We saw her proud flag struck that morn 

A star once o'er the seas — 
Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn — 

And sadder things than these ! 

We saw her treasures cast away, — 

The rocks with pearls were sown, 
And, strangely sad, the ruby's ray 

Flash'd out o'er fretted stone. 
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er, 

Like ashes by a breeze ; 
And gorgeous robes— but oh ! that shore 

Had sadder things than these ! 

We saw the strong man still and low, 

A crush'd reed tlnown aside ! 
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow, 

Not without strife he died. 
And near him on the sea-weed lay — 

Till then we had not wept — 
But well our gushing hearts might say. 

That there a mother slept ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



313 



For hor pale arms a babe had prest, 

With such a wreathing grasp, 
Billows had dash'd o'er that fond breast. 

Yet not undone the clasp. 
Her very tresses had been flung 

To wrap the fair child's form, 
Where still their wet long streamers hung 

All tangled by the storm. 

And beautiful, 'midst that wild scene, 

Gleam'd up the boy's dead face. 
Like slumbers, trustingly serene. 

In melancholy grace. 
Deep in her bosom lay his head. 

With half-shut violet eye — 
He had known little of her dread. 

Naught of her agony! 

Oh ! human love, whose yearning heart 

Through all things vainly true, 
So stamps upon thy mortal part 

Its passionate adieu — 
Surely thou hast another lot. 

There is some home for thee. 
Where thou shall rest, remembering not 

The moaning of the sea ! 



THE TRUMPET. 

The trumpet's voice hath roused the land. 

Light up the beacon-pyre ! — 
A hundred hills have seen the brand. 

And waved the sign of fire. 
A hundred banners to the breeze 

Their gorgeous folds have cast — 
And, hark ! was that the sound of seas ? 

— A king to war went past. 
The chief is arming in his hall. 

The peasant by his hearth ; 
The mourner hears the thrilling call. 

And rises from the earth. 
The mother on her first-born son, 

Looks with a boding eye — 
They come not back, though all be won, 

Whose young hearts leap so high. 
The bard hath ceased his song, and bound 

The falchion to his side ; 
E'en for the marriage altar crown'd. 

The lover quits his bride. 
And all this haste, and change, and fear. 

By earthly clarion spread ! — 
How will it be, when kingdoms hear 

The blast that wakes the Dead ? 



EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL. 



Kow in thy youth, beseech of Him 

Who giveth, upbraiding not ; 
That his light in tliy heart become not dim, 

And his love be unforgot ; 
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be 
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee. 

Bernard Bartcrn. 



Hush ! 't is a holy hour — the quiet room 

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds 
A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom 
And the sweet stillness, down on fair young 
heads, 
With all their clust'ring locks, untouch'd by care. 
And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in 
prayer 

Gaze on — 'tis lovely! — Childhood's lip and cheek, 
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought — 

Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, 
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought ? 

Thou seest what Grief must nurture for the sky, 

What Death must fasliion for Eternity I 
40 



Oh ! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest. 
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done. 
As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest, 

'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun- 
Lift up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies 
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. 

Though fresh within your breasls th' untroubled 
springs 

Of Hope make melody where'er ye tread. 
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings 

Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread — 
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low. 
Is woman's tenderness — how soonher Woe ! 

Her look is on you — silent tears to weep. 
And patient smiles to wear through suflering's 
hour. 

And sumless riches, from affection's deep. 
To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower! 

And to make idols, and to find them clay. 

And to bewail that worship—therefore pray ! 

Her lot is on you — to be found untired. 
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain. 

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired. 
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain ; 

Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay. 

And, oh ! to love through all things— therefore pray ! 

And take the thought of this calm vesper time. 
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light. 

On through the dark days fading from their prime. 
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight ! 

Earth will forsake — oh ! happy to have given 

Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven. 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 



: livrer a I'idee meme qu'on re- 



Lewes have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath. 

And stars to set — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh f Death. 

Day is for mortal care. 
Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, 
Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of 
prayer — 
But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour. 
Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine; 

There comes a day forgriefso'erwhelmingpower, 
A time for softer tears — but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for decay. 

And smile at thee— but thou art not of those 
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. 

We know when moons shall wane. 
When summer-birds from far shall cross tlie sea. 

When autumn's hue shall tinge the gok-'en grain, 
But who shall teach us when to' look for thee? 

Is it when spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where \he violets lie? 
Is it when roses in our paths ?/ow pale? — 
They have one season— a« are Jurs to die ! 

Thou art where billows foam. 
Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, 
And the world calls us forth— and thou art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend. 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest— 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 



314 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set— but all, 
Thou liast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death. 



THE CLIFFS OF DOVER. 



The inviolate Island of the sage and free. Byron* 

Rocks of my country ! let the cloud 

Your crested heights array, 
And rise ye, like afortress proud, 

Above the surge and spray ! 

My spirit greets you as ye stand, 

Breasting the billow's foam : 
Oh ! thus for ever guard the land. 

The sever'd Land of Home ! 

I have left rich blue skies behind, 

Lighting up classic shrines, 
And music in the southern wind. 

And sunshine on the vines. 

The breathings of the myrtle-flowers 

Have floated o'er my way ; 
The pilgrim's voice, at vesper-hours, 

Hath soothed me with its lay. 

The Isles of Greece, the Hills of Spain, 
The purple Heavens of Rome, — 

Yes, all are glorious; — yet again, 
I bless thee, Land of Home ! 

For thine the Sabbath peace, my land ! 

And thine the guarded hearth ; 
And thine the dead, the noble band. 

That make thee holy earth. 

Their voices meet me in thy breeze, 
Their steps are on thy plains ; 

Their names by old majestic trees. 
Are whisper'd round thy fanes. 

Their blood hath mingled with the tide 

Of thine exulting sea ; 
Oh ! be it still a joy, a pride. 

To live and die for thee ! 



THE LOST PLEIAD. 



■' Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below.**^— 5yr07i. 



And is there glory from the heavens departed ? — 
Oh ! void unmark'd ! — thy sisters of the sky 
Still hold their place on high. 

Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, 
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye ! 

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night ? 
She wears her crown of old magnificence. 
Though thou art exiled thence — 
iTo desert seems to part those urns of light, 
Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense. 

They lise in joy, the starry myriads burning — 
The si-^pherd greets them on his mountains free ; 
And from the silvery sea 
To them tlio sailor's wakeful eye is turning — 
Unchanged they rise, they have not mourn'd for 
thee. 

Couldst thou be shaken from thv radiant place, 
Ev'n as a dew-dror, from the myrtle spray, 
Swept by the wiiid away ? 

Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race. 
And was there power to smite them with decay ? 

Why, vcho shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? 

Bow'd be our hearts to think on what we are, 
Wlien from its height afar 
A world sinks thus— and yon majestic heaven 

Shines not the less for that one vanish'd star ! 



THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS. 



The kings of old have shrine and tomb. 
In many a minster's haughty gloom ; 
And green, along the ocean-side. 
The mounds arise where heroes died ; 
But show me, on thy flowery breast. 
Earth ! where thy nameless martyrs rest ! 

The thousands that, uncheer'd by praise. 
Have made one offering of their days; 
For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake, 
Resign'd the bitter cup to take. 
And silently, in fearless faith. 
Bowing their noble souls to death. 

Where sleep they, Eartli ?— by no proud stone 

Their narrow couch of rest is known ; 

The still sad glory of their name. 

Hallows no mountain unto Fame ; 

No — not a tree the record bears 

Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers. 

Yet haply all around lie strew'd 

The ashes of that multitude : 

It may be that each day we tread. 

Where thus devoted hearts have bled. 

And the young flowers our children sow. 

Take root in holy dust below. 

Oh ! that the many-rustling leaves. 
Which round our homes the summer weaves. 
Or that the streams, in wiiose glad voice 
Our own familiar paths rejoice. 
Might whisper through the starry sky. 
To tell where those blest slumberers lie ! 

Would not our inmost hearts be still'd. 
With knowledge of their presence fill'd. 
And by its breathings taught to prize 
The meekness of self-sacrifice 7 
— But the old woods and sounding waves 
Are silent of those hidden graves. 

Yet what if no light footstep there 
In pilgrim-love and awe repair, 
So let it be !— like him, whose clay 
Deep buried by his Maker lay. 
They sleep in secret, — but their sod. 
Unknown to man, is mark'd of God! 



THE VOICE OP HOME TO THE PRODIGAL. 



Von Baumen, aus Wellen, aus Mauern, 
Wie ruft es dir freundlich und lindj 
Was hast du zu wandern, zu trauern ? 
Komm' spielen, du freundliches Kind ! 

La Motte Fouque. 



Oh ! when wilt thou return 

To thy spirit's early loves ? 
To the freshness of the morn. 

To the stillness of the groves 1 

The summer-birds are calling 
Thy household porch around. 

And the merry waters falling. 
With sweet laughter in their sound. 

And a thousand bright-vein'd flowers 
From their banks of moss and fern. 

Breathe of the sunny hours— 
But when wilt thou return ? 

Oh ! thou hast wander'd long 
From thy home vifithout a guide. 

And thy native woodland song. 
In thine alter'd heart hath died. 

Thou hast flung the wealth away, 
And the glory of thy spring; 

And to thee the leaves' light play, 
Is a long-forgotten thing. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



315 



But when wilt thou return ? — 
Sweet dews may freshen soon 

The flower within whose urn 
Too fiercely gazed tlie noon. 

O'er the image of the sky, 

Which the lake's clear bosom wore, 
Darkly may shadows lie 

But not for ever more. 

Give back thy heart again 
To the freedom of the woods. 

To the birds' triumphant strain, 
To the mountain solitudes ! 

But when wilt thou return? 

Along thine own pure air. 
There are young sweet voices borne — 

Oh ! should not thine be there ? 

Still at thy father's board 
There is kept a place for thee. 

And, by thy smile restored, 
Joy round the hearth shall be. 

Still hath thy mother's eye. 

Thy coming step to greet, 
A look of days gone by. 

Tender and gravely sweet. 

Still, when the prayer is said. 
For thee kind bosoms yearn, — 

For thee fond tears are shed — 
Oh ! when wilt thou return ? 



THE HOUR OF PRAYER. 



Pregar, pre^r, pregar, 
Ch' altro ponno i mortali al pianger nate 



Alfieri. 



Chilb, amidst the flowers at play, 
While the red light fades away ; 
Mother, with thine earnest eye. 
Ever following silently ; 
Father, by the breeze of eve 
Call'd thy harvest work to leave ; 
Pray — ere yet the dark hours be, 
Lift the heart and bend tlie knee ! 

Traveller, in the stranger's land. 
Far from thine own household band; 
Mourner, haunted by the tone 
Of a voice from this world gone ; 
Captive, in whose narrow cell 
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell ; 
Sailor, on the darkening sea — 
Lift tlie heart and bend the knee ! 

Warrior, that from battle won 
Breathest now at set of sun ; 
Woman, o'er the lowly slain 
Weeping on his burial-plain ; 
Thou, the weary and o'erworn; 
Thou, whose hope hath wings of morn ; 
Heaven's first star alike ye see — 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 



THE WAKENING. 



How many thousands are wakening now ! 
Some to the songs from the forest-bough. 
To the rustling of leaves at the lattice-pane. 
To the chiming fall of the early rain. 

And some far out on the deep mid-sea. 
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee. 
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side. 
That holds through the tumult her path of pride. 



And some — oh ! well may their hearts rejoico 
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice I 
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone. 
When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone. 

And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath 
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath, 
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun, 
"" ' ' ' '■ "'■ " " — ' — " "'"ht he won. 



And hope ms uobi^.u o^..^, 

Upspringing, 'midst the waves, to greet 

The fair earth's messengers. 
That woo him, from the moaning main, 
Back to her glorious bovvers again. 

They woo him, whispering lovely tales 

Of many a flowering glade, 
And fount's brigiit gleam in island vales 
Of golden-fruited shade ; 
Across his lone ship's wake they bring 
A vision and a glow of spring. 

And oh ! ye masters of the lay. 

Come not ev'n thus your songs 
That meet us on life's weary way. 
Amidst her toiling throngs? 
Yes ! o'er the spirit thus they bear 
A current of celestial air. 

Their power is from the brighter clime 

That in our birth hath part; 
Their tones are of the world, which time 
Sears not within the heart ; 
They tell us of the living light 
In its green places ever bright. 



316 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



They call us, with a voice divine, 

Back to our early love, — 
Our vows of youth at many a shrine, 
Whence far and fast we rove :— 
Welcome high thought and holy strain 
That make us Truth's and Heaven's again ! 



The nightingale is there. 
The sunbeam's glow, the citron-flower's perfume, 
The south-wind's whisper in the scented air — 

It will not pierce the tomb ! 

Never, oh ! never more. 
On thy Rome's purple heaven mine eye shall dwell. 
Or watch the bright waves melt along thy shore — 

My Italy, farewell ! 

Alas ! — thy hills among. 
Had I but left a memory of my name. 
Of love and grief, one deep, true, fervent song. 

Unto immortal fame ! 

But like a lute's brief tone. 
Like a rose-odour on the breezes cast. 
Like a swift flush of day-spring, seen and gone, 

So hath my spirit pass'd ! 

Pouring itself away. 
As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns 
That which within him triumphs, beats, or burns, 

Into a fleeting lay; 

That swells, and floats, and dies, 
Leaving no echo to the summer woods 
Of the rich breathings and impassion'd sighs. 

Which thrill'd their solitudes. 

Yet, yet remember me ! 
Friends ! that upon its murmurs oft have hung. 
When from my bosom, joyously and free, 

The flery fountain sprung. 

Under the dark rich blue 
Of midnight heavens, and on the star-lit sea. 
And when woods kindle into spring's first hue, 

Sweet friends ! remember me ! 

And in the marble halls, 
Where life's full glow the dreams of beauty wear. 
And poet-thoughts embodied light the walls. 

Let me be with you there ! 

Fain would I bind for you 
My memory with all glorious things to dwell ; 
Fain bid all lovely sounds my name renew — 

Sweet friends, bright land, farewell! 



THE FORSAKEN HEARTH. 



THE DYING IMPROVISATORE.* 



My heart shall be pour'd over thee — and break. 

Prophecy of Dante. 



The spirit of my land ! 
It visits me once more! — though I must die 
Far from the myrtles which thy breeze hath fann'd. 

My own bright Italy ! 

It is, it is thy breath, 
Which stirs my soul e'en yet, as wavering flame 
Is shaken by the wind ;— in life and death 

Still trembling, yet the same ! 

Oh ! that love's quenchless power 
Might waft my voice to fill thy summer sky, 
And through thy groves its dying music shower, 

Italy! Italy! 

*S8Stini, the Roman Improvisatore, when on his death-bed at Pa- 
ris, is said to have poured forth a Farewell to Italy, in his most im- 
passioned poetry. 



Was mir fehlt ?— Mir fehlt ja alles, 
Bin so ganz verl&ssen hier I 



Tyrolesc Melody. 



The Hearth, the Hearth is desolate, the fire is 

quench'd and gone. 
That into happy children's eyes once brightly 

laughing shone ; 
The place where mirth and music met is hush'd 

through day and night, — 
Oh! for one kind, one sunny face, of all that there 

made light ! 

But scatter'd are those pleasant smiles afar by 

mount and shore. 
Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed 

to meet no more ; 
Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other's 

joy or mirth. 
Unbound is that sweet wreath of home— alas ! the 

lonely Hearth ! 

The voices that have mingled here now speak 

another tongue. 
Or breathe, perchance, to alien ears the songs their 

mother sung ; 
Sad, strangely sad, in stranger lands, must sound 

each household tone, — 
The Hearth, the Hearth is desolate, the bright fire 

quench'd and gone. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



317 



But are they speaking, singing yet, as in their days 

of glee ? 
Those voices, are they lovely still, still sweet on 

earth or sea ?— 
Oh ! some are hush'd, and some are changed, and 

never shall one strain 
Blend their fraternal cadences triumphantly again ! 

And of the hearts that here vs'ere link'd by long 

remember'd years. 
Alas! the brother knows not now when fall the 

sister's tears ! 
One haply revels at the feast, while one may droop 

alone. 
For broken is the household chain, the bright fire 

quench'd and gone ! 

Not so— 't is not a broken chain— thy memory binds 

them still. 
Thou holy Hearth of other days, though silent now 

and chill ! 
The smiles, the tears, the rites beheld by thine 

attesting stone. 
Have yet a living power to mark thy children for 

thine own. 

The father's voice, the mother's prayer, thotigh 

call'd from earth away, 
With music rising from the dead, their spirits yet 

shall sway ; 
And by the past, and by the grave, the parted yet 

are one. 
Though the loved Hearth be desolate, the bright 

fire quench'd and gone 1 



THE DREAMER. 

There is no such thing as forgetting possible to the 
mind ; a thousand accidents may, and will, interpose a 
veil between our present consciousness, and the secret 
inscription on the mind ; but aUke, whether veiled or 
unveiled, the inscription remains for ever. 

English Opium- Eater. 

Thou hast been call'd, Sleep ! the friend of woe, 
But 't is the happy who have call'd thee so. 

Southey. 

Peace to thy dreams !— thou art slumbering now, 
The moonlight's calm is upon thy brow ; 
All the deep love that o'erflows thy breast, 
Lies 'midst the hush of thy heart at rest. 
Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell. 
When eve through the woodlands hath sigh'd 
farewell. 

Peace !— the sad memories that through the day, 

With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay. 

The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead. 

That bow'd thee, as winds bow the willow's head, 

The yearnings for faces and voices gone — 

All are forgotten !— Sleep on, sleep on ! 

.^re they forgotten ?— It is not so ! 

Slumber divides the heart from its woe. 

E'en now o'er thine aspect swift changes pass, 

Like lights and shades over wavy grass: 

Tremblest thou. Dreamer?— O love and grief! 

Ye have storms that shake e'en the closed-up leaf! 

On thy parted lips there's a quivering thrill, 

As on a lyre ere its chords are still ; 

On the long silk lashes that fringe thine eye, 

There 's a large tear gathering heavily ; 

A rain from the clouds of thy'spirit press'd— 

Sorrowful Dreamer !— this is not rest ! 

It is Thought at work amidst buried hours. 
It is Love keeping vigil o'er perish'd flowers.— 
Oh! we bear within us mysterious things, 
Of Memory and Anguish,' unfathom'd springs, 
And Passion, those gulfs of the heart to fill, 
With bitter waves, which it ne'er may still. 



Well might we pause ere we gave them sway, 
Flinging the peace of our couch away 1 
Well might we look on our souls in fear, 
They find no fount of oblivion here! 
They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath — 
How know we if under the wings of death ? 



PSYCHE BORNE BY ZEPHYRS TO THE 
ISLAND OF PLEASURE.* 



Souvent I'ame, fortifiee par la contemplation des 
choses divines, voudroit deployer ses ailes vers le ciel. 
Elle croit qu'au terme de sa carriere un rideau va se 
lever pour lui decouvrir des scenes de lumiere: raais 
quand la mort touche son corps perissable, elle jette un 
regard en arriere vers les plaisirs terrestres et vers sea 
compagnes mortelles. — Schlegel. 

Translated by Madame de Stacl. 



Fearfully and mournfully 
Thou bidd'st the earth farewell, 

And yet thou'rt passing, loveliest one! 
In a brighter land to dwell. 

Ascend, ascend rejoicing ! 

The sunshine of that shore 
Around thee, as a glorious robe, 

Shall stream for evermore. 

The breezy music wandering 
There through th' Ely si an sky. 

Hath no deep tone that seems to float 
From a happier time gone by : 

And there the day's last crimson 
Gives no sad memories birth. 

No thought of dead or distant friends, 
Or partings— as on earth. 

Yet fearfully and mournfully 
Thou bidd'st that earth farewell, 

Although thou'rt passing, loveliest one ! 
In a brighter land to dwell. 

A land where all is deathless — 

The sunny wave's repose, 
The wood with its rich melodies, 

The summer and its rose. 

A land that sees no parting. 
That hears no sound of sighs. 

That waits thee with immortal air — 
Lift, lift those anxious eyes ! 

Oh ! how like thee, thou trembler ! 

Man's spirit fondly clings 
With timid love, to'this, its world 

Of old familiar tilings ! 

We pant, we thirst for fountains 

That gush not here below ! 
On, on we toil, allured by dreams 

Of the living water's flow : 

We pine for kindred natures 

To mingle with our own ; 
For communings more full and high 

Than aught by mortal known : 

We strive with brief aspirings 

Against our bounds in vain ; 
Yet summon'd to be free at last, 

We shrink— and clasp our chain ! 

And fearfully and mournfully 

We bid the earth farewell. 
Though passing from its mists, like thee, 

In a brighter world to dwell. 



# Written for a picture in which Psyche, on her flight upwards, 
is represented looking back sadly and an-\iously to the earth. 



318 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



THE WINGS OF THE DOVE. 



Oh ! that I had the wings of a dove, that I might flee away and 
be at rest. 



Oh ! for thy wings, thou dove ! 
Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast ; 

That, borne like thee above, 
I too might flee away, and be at rest ! 

Where wilt thou fold those pUimes, 
Bird of the forest- sliadows, holiest bird ? 

In what rich leafy glooms, 
By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirr'd ? 

Over what blessed home. 
What roof with dark, deep, summer foliage cro wn'd, 

O ! fair as ocean's foam ! 
Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around ? 

Or seek'st thou some old shrine 
Of nymph or saint, no more by votary woo'd, 

Though still, as if divine. 
Breathing a spirit o'er the solitude ? 

Yet wherefore ask thy way ? 
Blest, ever blest, whate'er its aim, thou art ! 

Unto the greenwood spray. 
Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart ! 

No echoes that will blend 
A sadness with the whispers of the grove ; 

No memory of a friend 
Far off, or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove ! 

Oh! to some cool recess 
Take, take me with thee on the summer wind, 

Leaving the weariness 
And all the fever of this life behind : 

The aching and the void 
Within the heart, whereunto none reply, 

The young bright hopes destroy'd — 
Bird ! bear me with thee through the sunny sky ! 

Wild wish, and longing vain. 
And brief upspringing to be glad and free I 

Go to thy woodland reign ! 
My soul is bound and held — I may not flee. 

For even by all the fears 
And thoughts that haunt my dreams — untold, un- 
known. 

And burning woman's tears, 
Pour'd from mine eyes in silence and alone ; 

Had I thy wings, thou dove ! 
High 'midst the gorgeous Isles of Cloud to soar, 

Soon the strong cords of love 
Would draw me earthwards— homewards— yet 
once more. 



THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 



Where 's the coward that would not dare 
To fight for such a land ? 

Marmion. 



The stately Homes of England, 

How beautiful they stand I 
Amidst their tall ancestral trees. 

O'er all the pleasant land. 
The deer across their greensward bound 

Through shade and sunny gleam. 
And the swan glides past them with the sound 

Of some rejoicing stream. 

The merry Homes of England ! 

Around their hearths by night, 
What gladsome looks of household love 

Meet in the ruddy light ! ■ 
There woman's voice flows forth in song, 

Or childhood's tale is told. 
Or lips move tunefully along 

Some glorious page of old. 



The blessed Homes of England I 

How softly on their bowers 
Is laid the holy quietness 

That breathes from Sabbath hours ! 
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 

Floats through their woods at morn ; 
All other sounds, in that still time, 

Of breeze and leaf are born. 

The Cottage Homes of England! 

By thousands on her plains, 
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 

And round the hamlet fanes. 
Through glowing orchards forth they peep, 

Each from its nook of leaves. 
And fearless there the lowly sleep. 

As the bird beneath their eaves. 

The free, fair Homes of England! 

Long, long, in hut and hall. 
May hearts of native proof be rear'd 

To guard each hallow'd wall ! 
And green for ever be the groves, 

And bright the flowery sod. 
Where first the child's glad spirit loves, 

Its country and its God ! 



THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE. 



I have dreamt thou wert- 
A captive in thy hopelessness ; afar 
From the sweet home of thy young infancy, 
Vyhose image unto thee is as a dream 
Of fire and slaughter j I can see thee wasting, 
Sick for thy native air. 

L. E. L. 

The champions had come from their fields of war, 

Over the crests of the billows far — 

They had brought back the spoils of a hundred 

shores, 
Where the deep had foam'd to their flashing oars. 

They sat at their feast round the Norse king's 

board ; 
By the glare of the torch-light the mead was pour'd ; 
The hearth was heap'd with the pine-boughs high, 
And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by. 

The Scalds had chanted in Runic rhyme 
Their songs of the sword and the olden time ; 
And the solemn thrill, as the harp-chords rung. 
Had breathed from the walls where the bright 
spears hung. 

But the swell was gone from the quivering string. 
They had summon'd a softer voice to sing. 
And a captive girl at the warriors' call. 
Stood forth in the midst of that frowning hall. 

Lonely she stood : — in her mournful eyes 
Lay the clear midnight of southern skies ; 
And the drooping fringe of their lashes low, 
Half veil'd a depth of unfathom'd woe. 

Stately she stood — though her fragile frame 
Seem'd struck with the blight of some inward 

flame ; 
And her proud, pale brow had a shade of scorn, 
Under the waves of her dark hair worn. 

And a deep flush pass'd, like a crimson haze. 
O'er her marble cheek by the pine-fire's blaze ; 
No soft hue caught from the south wind's breath. 
But a token of fever, at strife with death. 

She had been torn from her home away. 
With her long locks crown'd for her bridal day, 
And brought to die of the burning dreams 
That haunt the exile by foreign streams. 

They bade her sing of her distant land — 

She held its lyre with a trembling hand, 

Till the spirit its blue skies had given her, woke, 

And the stream of her voice into music broke. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



319 



Paint was the strain, in its first wild flow; 

Troubled its murmur, and sad, and low; 

But it sweird into deeper power ere long. 

As tlie breeze that swept o'er her soul grew strong 



" They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny 

land! of theel 
Am I not parted from thy shores by the mournful 

sounding sea ? 
Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul ? — in silence 

let me die. 
In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts, and thy 

pure, deep sapphire sky ; 
How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried 

sweetness forth ? 
Its tones of summer's breathings born, to the wild 

winds of the north? 

" Yet thus it shall be once, once more ! — my spirit 

shall awake. 
And through the mists of death shine out, my 

country, for thy sake ! 
That I may make thee known, with all the beauty 

and the light, 
And the glory never more to bless thy daughter's 

yearning sight! 
Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright 

streams warble by, 
Thy soul flow o'er my lips again — yet once, my 

Sicily ! 

" There are blue heavens — far hence, far hence ! 

but, oh ! their glorious blue ! 
Its very night is beautiful, with the hyacinth's 

deep hue ! 
It is above my own fair land, and round my 

laughing home. 
And arching o'er my vintage hills, they hang their 

cloudless dome ; 
And making all the waves as gems, that melt along 

the shore. 
And steeping happy hearts in joy — that now is 

mine no more. 

"And there are haunts in that green land — oh! 
who may dream or tell 

Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and 
dell? 

By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and 
glossy leaves. 

And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest un- 
troubled weaves ; 

The myrtle dwells there, sending round the rich- 
ness of its breath. 

And the violets gleam like amethysts, from the 
dewy moss beneath. 

" And there are floating sounds that fill the skies 

through night and day — 
Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in 

dreams of heaven away ! 
They wander through the olive woods, and o'er 

the shining seas — 
They mingle with the orange-scents that load the 

sleepy breeze ; 
Lute, voice, and bird, are blending there; — it were 

a bliss to die, 
As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Sicily ! 

"/ may not thus depart — farewell ! yet no, my 

country ! no ! 
Is not love stronger than the grave? I feel it 

must be so ! 
My fleeting spirit shall o'ersweep the mountains 

and the main. 
And in thy tender starlight rove, and through thy 

woods again. 
Its passion deepens — it prevails ! — I break my 

chain — I come 
To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest— in thy sweet 

air, my home !" 



And her pale arms dropp'd the ringing lyre — 
There came a mist o'er her eye's wild fire — 
And her dark rich tresses, in many a fold. 
Loosed from their braids, down her bosom roll'd. 



For her head sank back on the rugged wall — 

A silence fell o'er the warrior's hall ; 

She had pour'd out her soul with her song's last 

tone ; 
The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone ! 



IVAN THE CZAR. 



"Ivan le Terrible, etant deja devenu vieux, assiegait 
Novogorod. Les Boyaids, le voyant affoibli, lui de- 
manderent s'il ne voulait pas donner le commandement 
de I'assaut a son fils. Sa fureur fut si grande a cette 
proposition, que rien ne put I'appaiser; son fils se pros- 
terna a ses pieds; il le repoussa avec un coup d'une 
telle violence, que deux jours apres le malheureux en 
mourut. Le pare, alors au desespoir, devint indilTereiit 
a la guerre comme au pouvoir, et ne survecut que peu 

demoisasonfils." Dix Annees (C Exit, par Madame 

de Stael. 

Gieb diesenTodten mir heraus. Ich muss 
Ihnwieder haben! * # # 

* * * Trostloseallmacht, 

Die nicht einmal in Graber ihren arm 
Verlangern, eine kleine Ubereilung 
Mit Menschenleben nicht verbessern kann ! 

Schaier. 



He sat in silence on the ground, 

The old and haughty Czar, 
Lonely, though princes girt him round, 

And leaders of the war : 
He had cast his jewell'd sabre, 

That many a field had won, 
To the earth beside his youthful dead — 

His fair and first-born son. 

With a robe of ermine for its bed, 

Was laid that form of clay, 
Wliere the light a stormy sunset shed 

Through the rich tent made way; 
And a sad and solemn beauty 

On the pallid face came down, 
Which the lord of nations mutely watch'd, 

In the dust, with his renown. 

Low tones, at last, of woe and fear 

From his full bosom broke — 
A mournful thing it was to hear 

How then the proud man spoke ! 
The voice that through the combat 

Had shouted far and high. 
Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, 

Burden'd with agony. 

" There is no crimson on thy cheek, 

And on thy lip no breath ; 
I call thee, and thou dost not speak — 

They tell me this is death ! 
And fearful things are whispering 

That I the deed have done— 
For the honour of thy father's name, 

Look up, look up, my son ! 

" Well might I know death's hue and mien, 

But on thine aspect, boy ! 
What, till this moment, have I seen 

Save pride and tameless joy? 
Swiftest thou wert to battle, 

And bravest there of all — 
How could I think a warrior's frame 

Thus like a flower should fall? 

" I will not bear that still cold look — 

Rise up, thou fierce and free ! 
Wake as the storm wakes ! I will brook 

All, save this calm, from thee! 
Lift brightly up, and proudly, 

Once more thy kindling eyes ! 
Hath my word lost its power on earth ? 

I say to thee, arise! 



320 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



" Didst tliou not know I loved thee well ? 

Thou didst not ! and art gone, 
In bitterness of soul, to dwell 

Where man must dwell alone. 
Come back, young fiery spirit ! 

If but one hour, to learn 
The secrets of the folded heart 

That seem'd to thee so stern. 

" Thou wert the first, the first, fair child, 

That in mine arms I press'd ; 
Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled 

Like summer on my breast 1 
I rear'd thee as an eagle 

To the chase thy steps I led, 
I bore thee on my battle-horse, 

I look upon thee — dead! 

"Lay down my warlike banners here, 

Never again to wave, 
And bury my red sword and spear. 

Chiefs ! in my first-born's grave ! 
And leave me ! — I have conquer'd, 

I have slain — my work is done ! 
Whom have I slain ? — ye answer not — 

Thou too art mute, my son !" 

And thus his wild lament was pour'd 

Through the dark resounding night, 
And the battle knew no more his sword. 

Nor the foaming steed his might. 
He heard strange voices moaning 

In every wind that sigh'd ; 
From the searching stars of heaven he shrank- 

Humbly the conqueror died. 



CAROLAN'S PROPHECY.* 



Thy cheek too swiftly flushes, o'er thine eye 
The lights and shadows come and go too fast. 
Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice 
Are sounds of tenderness too passionate 
For peace on earth; oh ! therefore, child of song 
'T is well thou shouldst depart. 



A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills. 

Came suddenly, and died ; a fitful sound 

Of mirth, soon lost in wail.— Again it rose. 

And sank in mournfulness. — There sat a bard 

By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept 

Flashing through rock and wood ; the sunset's light 

Was on his wavy, silver-gleaming hair, 

And the wind's whisper in the mountain ash, 

Whose clusters droop'd above. His head was bow'd. 

His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch 

Had drawn but broken strains ; and many stood. 

Waiting around, in silent earnestness, 

Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song — 

Many and graceful forms ! — yet one aloiie 

Seem'd present to his dream ; and she, indeed. 

With her pale, virgin brow, and changeful cheek. 

And the clear starlight of her serious eyes. 

Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks 

And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful. 

E'en painfully !— a creature to behold 

With trembling 'midst our joy, lest aught unseen 

Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth 

Too dim without its brightness ! — Did such fear 

O'ershadow in that hour the gifted one. 

By his own rushing stream ? — Once more he gazed 

Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more 

From the deep chords his wandering hand brought 

out 
A few short festive notes, an opening strain 
Of bridal melody, soon dash'd with grief, 
As if some wailing spirit in the strings 
Met and o'ermaster'd him : but yielding then 
To the strong prophet-impulse, mournfully. 
Like moaning waters, o'er the harp he pour'd 
The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang — 

^- Founded on a circumstance related of the Irish Bard, in the 
Percy Anecdotes of lnia2;ination. 



Voice of the grave ! 

I hear thy thrilling call ; 
It comes in the dash of the foaming wave. 

In the sere leaf's trembling fall ! 
In the shiver of the tree, 

I hear thee, O thou voice ! 
And I would thy warning were but for me. 

That my spirit might rejoice. 

But thou art sent 

For the sad earth's young and fair, 
For the graceful heads that have not bent 

To the wintry hand of care ! 
They hear the wind's low sigh, 

And the river sweeping free. 
And the green reeds murmuring heavily. 

And the woods— but they hear not thee ! 

Long have I striven 

With my deep foreboding soul, 
But the full tide now its bounds hath riven, 

And darkly on must roll. 
There's a young brow smiling near. 

With a bridal white rose wreath — 
Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier, 

Touch'd solemnly by death ! 

Fair art thou, Morna ! 

The sadness of thine eye 
Is beautiful as silvery clouds 

On the dark blue summer sky ; 
And thy voice comes like the sound 

Of a sweet and hidden rill. 
That makes the dim woods tuneful round — 

But soon it must be still ! 

Silence and dust 

On thy sunny lips must lie — 
Make not the strength of love thy trust, 

A stronger yet is nigh ! 
No strain of festal flow 

That ray hand for thee hath tried. 
But into dirge notes wild and low 

Its ringing tones have died. 

Young art thou, Morna ! 

Yet on thy gentle head. 
Like heavy dew on the lily's leaves, 

A spirit hath been shed ! 
And the glance is thine which sees 

Through nature's awful heart — 
But bright things go with the summer breeze, 

And thou too must depart ! 

Yet shall I weep ? 

I know that in thy breast 
There swells a fount of song too deep, 

Too powerful for thy rest ! 
And the bitterness I know. 

And the chill of this world's breath- 
Go, all undimm'd, in thy glory go ! 

Young and crown'd bride of death ! 

Take hence to heaven 

Thy holy thoughts and bright. 
And soaring hopes, that were not given 

For the touch of mortal blight ! 
Might we follow in thy track. 

This parting should not be ! 
But the spring shall give us violets back. 

And every flower but thee ! 

There was a burst of tears around the bard : 
All wept but one, and she serenely stood. 
With her clear brow and dark religious eye 
Raised to the first faint star above the hills, 
And cloudless ; though it might be that her cheek 
Was paler than before.— So Morna heard 
The minstrel's prophecy. 

And spring return'd. 
Bringing the earth her lovely things again, 
All, save the loveliest far ! A voice, a smile, 
A young sweet spirit gone. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



321 



THE LADY OF THE CASTLE. 

FROM THE " PORTRAIT GALLERY," AN UNriNISHED 
POEM. 

If there be but one spot upon thy name, 

One eye thou fear^st to meet, one human voice 

Whose tones thou shrink'st from — Woman ! veil thy face, 

And bow thy head — and die ! 



Thou see'st her pictured with her shining hair, 

(Famed were those tresses in Provencal song,) 
Half braided, half o'er lier cheek and bosom fair 

Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along 
Her gorgeous vest. A child's "light hand is roving 
'iVIidst the rich curls ; and, oh ! how meekly loving 
Its earnest looks are lifted to the face 
Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace ! 
Yet that bright lady's eye, methinks, hath less 
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness. 
Than might beseem a mother's ; — on her brow 

Something too much there sits of native scorn. 
And her smile kindles vi'ith a conscious glow. 

As from the thought of sovereign beauty born. 
These may be dreams — but how shall woman tell 
Of woman's shame, and not with tears ? — She fell ! 
That mother left that child '.—went hurrying by 
Its cradle— haply not without a sigh. 
Haply one moment o'er its rest serene 
She hung— but, no ! it could not thus have been. 
For she went on! — forsook her home, her hearth. 
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth. 
To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing, 
Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king. 

Her lord, in very weariness of life. 

Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife; 

He reck'd no more of glory : — grief and shame 

Crush'd out his fiery nature, and his name 

Died silently. A shadow o'er his halls 

Crept year by year ; the minstrel pass'd their walls ; 

The warder's horn hung mute : — meantime the 

child, 
On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled, 
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, gre^v 
Into sad youth ; for well, too well, slie knew 
Her mother's tale ! Its memory made the sky 
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye; 
Check'd on her lip the flow of song, which fain 
Would there have linger'd; flush'd her cheek to 

pain 
If met by sudden glance ; and gave a tone 
Of sorrow, as for something lovfely gone. 
E'en to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low 
And plaintive. — Oh! there lie such depths of woe 
In a young blighted spirit ! Manhood rears 
A haughty brow, and age has done with tears ; 
But youth bows down to misery, in amaze 
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days — 
And thus it was with her. A mournful sight 

In one so fair — for she indeed was fair — 
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light. 

Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and 
prayer. 
And with long lashes o'er a white rose cheek. 
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek. 
Still that fond child's — and, oh ! the brow above 
So pale and pure ! so form'd for holy love 
To gaze upon in silence !— But she felt 
That love \va.s not for her, though hearts would 

melt 
Where'er she moved, and reverence mutely given 
Went with her ; and low prayers, that call'd on 

Heaven 
To bless the young Isaure. 

One sunny mom. 
With alms before her castle gate she stood, 
'Midst peasant groups ; when, breathless and o'er- 
worn, 
And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood, 
A stranger through them broke : — the orphan maid. 
With her sweet voice and proffer'd hand of aid, 
Turn'd to give welcome ; but a wild sad look 
Met hers— a gaze that all her spirit shook ; 

41 



And that pale woman, suddenly subdued 

By some strong passion in its gushing mood. 

Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such tears 

As rain the hoarded agonies of years 

From the heart's urn ; and with her whitq lips 

press'd 
The ground they trod ; then, burying in her vest 
Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out—" Oh ! undefiled 
I am thy mother— spurn me not, my child '." 

Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother; wept 
O'er her stain'd memory, while the happy slept 
In the hush'd midnight ; stood with mournful gaze 
Before yon picture's smile of other days, 
But never breathed in human ear the name 
Which weigh'd her being to the earth with shame. 

What marvel if the anguish, the surprise, 
The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise, 
Awhile o'erpower'd her ? — from the weeper's touch 
She shrank — 'twas but a moment— yet too much 
For that all-humbled one ; its mortal stroke 
Came down like lightning, and her full heart broke 
At once in silence. Heavily and prone 
She sank, while o'er her castle's threshold stone. 
Those long fair tresses — they still brightly wore 
Their early pride, though bound with pearls no 

more — 
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roU'd, 
And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold. 

Her child bento'er her— call'd her — 'T was too late — 
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate ! 
The joy of courts, the star of knight and hard — 
How didst thou fall, O bright-hair'd Ermengarde! 



THE MOURNER FOR THE BARMECIDES. 



A good old man '. how well in thee appears 
The constant service of the antique world ! 
Thou art not for the fashion of these times. 

^3 You Like It 



Fall'n was the House of Giafar ; and its name. 
The high romantic name of Barmecide, 
A sound forbidden on its own bright shores. 
By the swift Tygris' wave. Stern Haroun's wrath, 
Sweeping the mighty with their fame away. 
Had .so pass'd sentence : but man's chainless heart 
Hides that within its depths which never yet 
Til' oppressor's thought could reach. 

'Twas desolate 
Where Giafar's halls, beneath the burning sun. 
Spread out in ruin lay. The songs had ceased y 
Tiie lights, the perfumes, and the genii tales 
Had ceased ; the guests were gone. Yet still one 

voice 
Was there— the fountain's ; through those eastern 

courts. 
Over the broken marble and the grass, 
Its low clear music shedding mournfully. 

And still another voice ! — an aged man. 

Yet with a dark and fervent eye beneatli 

His silvery hair, came, day by day, and sate 

On a white column's fragment ; and drew forth. 

From the forsaken walls and dim arcades, 

A tone that shook them with its answering thrill 

To his deep accents. Many a glorious tale 

He told that sad yet stately solitude. 

Pouring his memory's fullness o'er its gloom, 

like waters in the waste; and calling up, 

By song or high recital of their deeds, 

Bright solemn shadows of its vanish'd race 

To people their own halls: with these alone. 

In all this rich and breathing world, his thoughts 

Held still unbroken converse. He had been 

Rear'd in this lordly dwelling, and was now 

The ivy of its ruins, unto wiiich 

His fading life seem'd bound. Day roll'd on day. 

And from that scene the loneliness was fled; 

For crowds around the gray-hair'd chronicler 



322 



HEPvIANS' POEMS. 



Met as men meet, within whose anxious hearts 
Fear with deep feeling strives; till, as a breeze 
Wanders through forest branches, and is met 
By one quick sound and shiver of the leaves, 
The spirit of his passionate lament, 
As through their stricken souls it pass'd, awoke 
One echoing murmur. — But this might not be 
Under a despot's rule, and summon'd thence, 
The dreamer stood before the Caliph's throne : 
Sentenced to death he stood, and deeply pale. 
And with his white lips rigidly compress'd ; 
Till, in submissive tones, he ask'd to speak 
Once more, ere thrust from earth's fair sunshine 

forth. 
Was it to sue for grace? — His burning heart 
Sprang, with a sudden lightning, to his eye. 
And he was changed !— and thus, in rapid words, 
Th' o'ermastering thoughts, more strong than death, 

found way. 

"And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble and 
the brave. 

With the glory on their brows, are gone before me 
to the grave ? 

What is there left to look on now, what bright- 
ness in the land ? 

I hold in scorn the faded world, that wants their 
princely band! 

" My chiefs ! my chiefs ! the oid man comes that 

in your halls was nursed — 
That follow'd you to many a fight, where flash'd 

your sabres first — 
That bore your children in his arms, your name 

upon his heart : — 
Oh ! must the music of that name with him from 

each depart ? 

" It shall not be ! a thousand tongues, though hu- 
man voice were still. 

With that hiih sound the living air triumphantly 
shall fill ; 

The wind's free flight shall bear it on, as wander- 
ing seeds are sown. 

And the starry midnight whisper it, with a deep 
and thrilling tone. 

" For it is not as a flower whose scent with the 
dropping leaves expires, 

And it is not as a household lamp, that a breath 
should quench its fires; 

It is written on our battle-fields with the writing 
of the sword, 

It hath left upon our desert sands a light in bless- 
ings pour'd. 

" The founts, the many gushing founts, which to 

the wild ye gave. 
Of you, my chiefs, sliall sing aloud, as they pour a 

joyous wave ! 
And the groves, with whose deep lovely gloom ye 

hung the pilgrim's way. 
Shall send from all their sighing leaves your praises 

on the day. 

"The very walls your bounty rear'd for the stran- 
ger's homeless head. 

Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my glorious 
dead ! 

Though the grass be where ye feasted once, where 
lute and cittern rung. 

And the serpent in your palaces lie coil'd amidst 
its young. 

" It is enough ! mine eye no more of joy or splen- 
dour sees — 

I leave your name in lofty faith, to the skies and 
to the breeze I 

I go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the 
bright and fair, 

And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my chiefs, 
are there !" 

But while the old man sang, a mist of tears 
O'er Haroun's eyes had gather'd, and a thought — 
Oh ! many a sudden and remorseful thought — 
Of his youth's once loved friends, the martyr'd race. 



O'erflow'd his softening heart.—" Live ! live !" he 

cried, 
" Thou faithful unto death ! live on, and still 
Speak of thy lords— they were, a princely band !" 



THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT. 



The prison'd thrush may brook the cage, 
The captive eagle dies for rage. 

Lady of the Lake. 

'Twas a trumpet's pealing sound ! 
And the knight look'd down from the Paynim's 

tower. 
And a Christian host, in its pride and power, 

Through the pass beneath him wound. 
Cease awhile, clarion ! Clarion, wild and shrill. 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice— be still ! 

" I knew 't was a trumpet's note ! 
And I see my brethren's lances gleam. 
And their pennons wave by the mountain stream, 

And their plumes to the glad wind float ! 
Cease awhile, clarion ! Clarion, wild and shrill. 
Cease 1 let them hear the captive's voice — be still 1 

" I am here, with my heavy chain ! 
And I look on a torrent sweeping by, 
And an eagle rushing to the sky. 
And a host to its battle-plain ! 
Cease awhile, clarion ! Clarion, wild and shrill. 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice — be still ! 

" Must I pine in my fetters here? 
Witli the wild wind's foam, and the free bird's 

flight, 
And the tall spears glancing on my sight. 

And the trumpet in mine ear? 
Cease awhile, clarion ! Clarion, wild and shrill, 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice— be still 

" They are gone ! they have all pass'd by ! 
They in whose wars I had borne my part, 
They that I loved with a brother's heart, 

They have left me here to die ! 
Sound again, clarion ! Clarion, pour thy blast ! 
Sound ! for the captive's dream of hope is past." 



THE SPANISH CHAPEL.* 



Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb. 
In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes, 

Ere sin threw a veil o'er the spirit's young bloom. 
Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies. 

Moore. 



I MADE a mountain brook my guide. 
Through a wild Spanish glen. 

And vv'ander'd on its grassy side. 
Far from the homes of men. 

It lured me with a singing tone, 
And many a sunny glance. 

To a green spot of beauty lone, 
A haunt for old romance. 

A dim and deeply bosom'd grove 

Of many an aged tree. 
Such as the shadowy violets love. 

The fawn and forest bee. 

The darkness of the chestnut bough 

There on the waters lay. 
The bright stream reverently below 

Check'd its exulting play; 

And bore a music all subdued. 

And led a silvery sheen, 
On through the breathing solitude 

Of that"rich leafy scene. 



* Suggested by a scene beautifully described in the Recollections of 
the Peninsula. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



323 



For something viewlessly around 

Of solemn influence dwelt, 
In the soft gloom and whispery sound, 

Not to be told, but felt: 

While sending forth a quiet gleam 

Across the wood's repose. 
And o'er the twilight of the stream, 

A lonely chapel rose. 

A pathway to that still retreat 
■Through many a myrtle wound, 

And there a sight— how strangely sweet! 
My steps in wonder bound. 

For on a brilliant bed of flowers, „ 

E'en at the threshold made. 
As if to sleep through sultry hours, 

A young fair child was laid. 

To sleep!— oh! ne'er on childhood's eye 

And silken lashes press'd, 
Did the warm living slumber lie 

With such a weight of rest ? 

Yet still a tender crimson glow 
Its cheek's pure marble dyed — 

'T was but tlie light's faint streaming flow 
Through roses heap'd beside. 

I stoop'd — the smooth round arm was chill. 
The soft lip's breath was fled, 

And the bright ringlets hung so still — 
The lovely child was dead! 

" Alas !" I cried, " fair faded thing ! 

Thou hast wrung bitter tears, 
And thou hast left a woe, to cling 

Round yearning hearts for years !" 

But then a voice came sweet and low — 

I turn'd, and near me. sate 
A woman with a mourner's brow, 

Pale, yet not desolate. 

And in her still, clear, matron face, 

All solemnly serene, 
A shadow'd image I could trace 

Of that young slumberer's mien. 

" Stranger ! thou pitiest me," she said. 
With lips that faintly smiled, 

"As here I watch beside my dead. 
My fair and precious child. 

" But know the time-worn heart may be 
By pangs in this world riven. 

Keener than theirs who yield, like me. 
An angel thus to Heaven !" 



THE KAISER'S FEAST. 

Louis, Emperor of Germany, having put his brother, 
the Palsgrave Rodolphus, under the ban of the empire, 
in the twelfth century, that unfortunate prince fled to 
England, where he died in neglect and poverty. "After 
his decease, his mother, Matilda, privately invited his 
children to return to Germany; and, by her mediation, 
during a season of festivity, whc-n Louis kept wassail 
in the castle of Heidelberg, the family of his brother 
presented themselves before him in the garb of suppli- 
ants, imploring pity and forgiveness. To this appeal the 

victor softened." Miss Benger's Memoirs of the 

Queen of Bohemia. 

The Kaiser feasted iri his hall — 

The red wine mantled high ; 
Banners were trembling on tlie wall. 

To the peals of minstrelsy : 
And many a gleam and sparkle caine 

From the armour hung around. 
As it caught the glance of the torch's flame, 

Or the hearth with pine-boughs crown'd. 



Why fell there silence on the chord 

Beneath the harper's hand ? 
And suddenly, from that rich board, 

Why rose the wassail band? 
The strings were hush'd— the knights made way 

For the queenly mother's tread, 
As up the hall, in dark array. 

Two fair-hair'd boys she led. 

She led them e'en to the Kaiser's place. 

And still before him stood ; 
Till, with strange wonder, o'er his face 

Flush'd the proud warrior blood : 
And " Speak, my mother! speak!" he cried, 

" Wherefore this mourning vest? 
And the clinging children by thy side. 

In weeds of sadness drest ?" 

"Well may a mourning vest be inine. 

And theirs, my son, my son ! 
Look on the features of thy line 

In each fair little one I 
Though grief awhile within their eyes 

Hath tamed the dancing glee. 
Yet there thine own quick spirit lies — 

Thy brother's children see ! 

" And where is he, thy brother, where ? 

He in thy home that grew. 
And smiling, with his sunny hair. 

Ever to greet thee flew ? 
How would his arms thy neck entwine, 

His fond lips press thy brow ! 
My son I oh, call these orphans thine — 

Tiiou hast no brother now 1* 

" What ! from their gentle eyes doth naught 

Speak of thy childhood's hours. 
And smite thee with a tender thought 

Of thy dead father's towers ? 
Kind was thy boyish heart and true. 

When rear'd together there. 
Through the old woods like fawns ye flew— 

Where is thy brother — where ? 

" Wei! didst thou love him then, and he 

Still at thy side was seen ! 
How is it that such things can be 

As though they ne'er had been ? 
Evil was this world's breath, which came 

Between the good and brave ! 
Now must the tears of grief and shame 

Be offer'd to the grave. 

" And let them, let them there be pour'd : 

Though all unfelt below — 
Thine own wrung heart, to love restored. 

Shall soften as they flow. 
Oh I death is mighty to make peace ; 

Now bid his work be done! 
So many an inward strife shall cease — ^ 

Take, take these babes, my son !" 

His eye was dimm'd— the strong man shook 

With feelings long suppress'd ; 
Up in his arms the boys he took. 

And strain'd them to his breast. 
And a shout from all in the royal hall 

Burst forth to hail the sight ; 
And eyes were wet 'midst the brave that met 

At tiie Kaiser's feast that night. 



TASSO AND HIS SISTER. 

"Devant vous est Sorrente; la demeuroit la sceur de 
Tasse, quand d vint en pelerin domander a cette obscure 
amie, un asyle contra I'injustice des princes. — Seslongues 
douleurs avaient presque egare sa raison; il ne lui 
restoit plus que son genie." Coriniie. 

She sat, where on each wind that sigh'd, 

The citron's breath went by. 
While the red gold of eventide 

Burn'd in th'Italian sky. 



324 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Her bower was one where daylight's close 

Full oft sweet laughter found, 
As thence the voice of childhood rose 

To the high vineyards round. 

But still and thoughtful, at her knee, 

Her children stood that hour. 
Their bursts of song and dancing glee 

Hush'd as by words of power. 
With bright, fix'd, wondering eyes, that gazed 

Up to their mother's face. 
With brows through parted ringlets raised. 

They stood in silent grace. 

While she— yet something o'er her look 

Of mournfulness was spread — 
Forth from a poet's magic book 

The glorious numbers read ; 
The proud undying lay which pour'd 

Its light on evil years ; 
His of the gifted pen and sword,* 

The triumph and the tears. 

She read of fair Erminia's flight. 

Which Venice oiice might hear 
Sung on her glittering seas at night 

By many a gondolier ; 
Of him she read, who broke the charm 

That wrapt the myrtle-grove ; 
Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm. 

That slew his Paynim love. 

Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd. 

Young holy hearts were stirr'd ; 
And the meek tears of woman flow'd 

Fast o'er each burning word. 
And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf. 

Came sweet, each pause between ; 
When a strange voice of sudden grief 

Burst on the gentle scene. 

The mother turn'd— a way-worn man, 

In pilgrim garb, stood nigh, 
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan, 

Of proud yet mournful eye. 
But drops which would not stay for pride. 

From that dark eye gush'd free. 
As pressing his pale brow, he cried, 

" Forgotten ! e'en by thee ! 

" Am I so changed 7 — and yet we two 

Oft hand in hand have play'd ; — 
This brow hath been all bathed in dew. 

From wreaths which thou hast made ; 
We have knelt down and said one prayer. 

And sung one vesper strain ; 
My soul is dim with clouds of care — 

Tell me those words again ! 

"Life hath been heavy on my head, 

I come a stricken deer. 
Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled. 

To bleed in stillness here." 
She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept 

Shook all her thrilling frame — 
She fell upon his neck and wept. 

Murmuring her brother's name. 

Her brother's name ! — and who was he. 

The weary one, th' unknown. 
That came, the bitter world to flee, 

A stranger to his own ? — 
He was the bard of gifts divine 

To sway the souls of men ; 
He of the song for Salem's shrine, 

He of the sword and pen ! 



TO WORDSWORTH. 



Thine is a strain to read among the hills. 
The old and full of voices ;— by the source 

Of some free stream, whose gladd'ning presence 
fills 
The solitude with sound; for in its course 



Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part 
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart. 

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken 
To the still breast, in sunny garden bowers. 

Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken. 
And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. 

There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day 

Sinks with a golden and serene decay. 

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet. 

When night hath hush'd the woods, with all 

their birds. 

There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet 

As antique music, link'd with household words ; 

While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip might 

move, 
And the raised eye of childhood shine in love. 

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews 
Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground, 

Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse 
A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around. 

From its own glow of hope and courage high. 

And steadfast faith's victorious constancy. 

True bard and holy !— thou art e'en as one 
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye. 

In every spot beneath the smiling sun. 
Sees where the springs of living waters lie : 

Unseen awhile they sleep— till, touch'd by thee. 

Bright healthful waves flow forth to each glad 
wanderer free. 



ULLA, OR THE ADJURATION. 



Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the stars, 
And gazed o'er Heaven in vain, in search of thee. 
Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the earth, 
And never found thy likeness. Speak to me ! 
This once— once more ! 

Manfred, 



* It is scarcely necessary 10 recall the well-known Italian saying, 
that Tasso, with his svvoru and pen, was superior to all men. 



" Thou'rt gone !— thou'rt slumbering low, 

With the sounding seas above thee ; 
It is but a restless woe. 

But a haunting dream to love thee? 
Thrice the glad swan has sung, 

To greet the spring-time hours. 
Since thine oar at parting flung 

The white spray up in showers. 

There 's a shadow of the grave on thy hearth and 

round thy home ; 
Come to me from the ocean's dead !— thou'rt surely 

of them— come !" 

'T was UUa's voice— alone she stood 

In the Iceland summer night. 
Far gazing o'er a glassy flood. 

From a "dark rock's beetling height. 

" I know thou hast thy bed 

Where the sea-weed's coil hath bound thee ; 
The storm sweeps o'er thy head. 

But the depths are hush'd around thee ; 
What wind shall point the way 

To the chambers where thou'rt lying ? 
Come to me thence, and say 

If thou thought'st on me in dying ? 

I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip 

and check — 
Come to me from the ocean's dead !— thou'rt surely 

of them — speak !" 

She listen'd— 't was the wind's low moan, 

'T was the ripple of the wave, 
'T was the wakening ospray's cry alone, 

As it started from its cave. 

" I know each fearful spell 

Of the ancient Runic lay. 
Whose mutter'd words compel 

The tempest to obey. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



325 



But I adjure not thee 

By magic sign or song — 
My voice shall stir tlie sea 

By love— the deep, the strong ! 

By the might of woman's tears, by the passion of 

her sighs. 
Come to me from the ocean's dead !— by tlie vows 

we pledged — arise !" 

Again she gazed with an eager glance. 
Wandering and wildly bright ; — 

She saw but the sparkling waters dance 
To the arrowy northern light. 

" By the slow and struggling death 

Of hope that loathed to part, 
By the fierce and withering breath 

Of despair on youth's high heart — 
By the weight of gloom vi'hich clings 

To the mantle of the night, 
By the heavy dawn which brings 

Naught lovely to the sight — 

By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung 

of grief and fear — 
Come to me from the ocean's dead — awake, arise, 

appear !" 

Was it her yearning spirit's dream. 

Or did a pale form rise. 
And o'er the hush'd wave glide and gleam. 

With bright, still, moui-nful eyes ? 

" Have the depths heard ? — they have ! 

My voice prevails — thou'rt there, 
Dim from thy watery grave — 

O that thou wert so fair ! 
Yet take me to thy rest ! 

Thei'e dwells no fear with love ; 
Let me slumber on thy breast, 

While the billow rolls above ! 

Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the bright 

ones have their home, 
We will sleep among the ocean's dead — stay for 

me, stay ! — I come !" 

There was a sullen plunge below, 

A flashing on the main. 
And the wave shut o'er that wild heart's woe. 

Shut— and grew still again. 



A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED. 



The Emperor Albert, of Hapsburgh, who was assas- 
Binated by his nephew, afterwards called John the Par- 
ricide, was left to die by the way-side, and only support- 
ed in his lastmomentsby a female peasant, who happen- 
ed to be passing. 



A MONARCH on his death-bed lay — 

Did censers waft perfume. 
And soft lamps pour their silvery ray 

Through his proud chamber's gloom ? 
He lay upon a greensward bed. 

Beneath a darkening sky — 
A lone tree waving o'er his head, 

A swift stream rolling by. 

Had he then fall'n as warriors fall. 

Where spear strikes fire with spear? 
Was there a banner for his pall, 

A buckler for his bier ? 
Not so;— nor cloven shields nor helms 

Had strewn the bloody sod. 
Where he, the helpless lord of realms, 

Yielded his soul to God. 

Were there not friends with words of cheer, 

And princely vassals nigh ? 
And priests, the crucifix to rear 

Before the glazing eye ? 



A peasant girl that royal head 

Upon her bosom laid. 
And, shrinking not for woman's dread, 

The face of death survey'd. 

Alone she sat :— from hill and wood 

Red sank the mournful sun : 
Fast gush'd the fount of noble blood- 
Treason its worst had done. 
With her long hair she vainly press'd 
The wounds to stanch their tide- 
Unknown, on that meek humble breast, 
Imperial Albert died ! 



TO THE MEMORY OF HEBER. 



Umile in tania gloria. — Petrarch. 



If it be sad to speak of treasures gone. 
Of sainted genius call'd too soon away. 

Of light from this world taken, while it shone 
Yet kindling onward to the perfect day — 

How shall our grief, if mournful these things be, 

Flow forth, O thou of many gifts ! for thee ? 

Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard? 

And that deep soul of gentleness and power. 
Have we not felt its breath in every word. 

Wont from thy lip, as Hermon's dew, to shower? 
Yes, in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have 

burn'd — 
Of heaven they were, and thither have return'd. 

How shall we mourn thee ?— With a lofty trust. 
Our life's immortal birthright from above! 

With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just. 
Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of 
love. 

And yet can weep ! — for nature thus deplores 

The friend that leaves us, though for happier shores. 

And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier, 
One strain of solemn rapture be allow'd ! 

Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career. 
Not to decay, but unto death, has bow'd ; 

In those bright regions of the rising sun. 

Where victory ne'er a crown like thine had won. 

Praise ! for yet one more name with power endo w'd, 
To cheer and guide us, onward as we press ; 

Yet one more image on the heart bestow'd, 
To dwell there, beautiful in holiness! 

Thine, Heber, thine ! whose memory from the dead, 

Shines as the star which to the Saviour led. 



THE ADOPTED CHILD. 



"Why wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child? 
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild, 
A straw-roof'd cabin with lowly wall — 
Mine is a fair and a pillar'd hall. 
Where many an image of marble gleams. 
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams." 

" Oh ! green is the turf where my brothers play. 
Through the long bright hours of the summer day ; 
They find the red cup-moss where they climb. 
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme. 
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they 

know — 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 

" Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell. 
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well ; 
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon. 
Harps which the wandering breezes tune. 
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird, 
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard." 

" Oh ! my mother sings, at the twilight's fall, 
A song of the hills far more sweet than all; 



326 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



She sings it under our own green tree, 
To the babe half slumbering on her knee ; 
I dreamt last night of that music low — 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 

" Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest, 
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast ; 
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no more, 
Nor hear her song at the cabin door. 
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh. 
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye." 

" Is my mother gone from her home away? — 
But I know that my brothers are there at play — 
I know they are gathering the foxglove's bell, 
Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well ; 
Or they launch their boats where the bright streams 

flow- 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 

" Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now. 
They sport no more on the mountain's brow, 
They have left the fern by the spring's green side. 
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried. 
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot. 
For thy cabin home is a lonely spot." 

"Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill ? — 
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still ; 
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free, 
And the heath is bent by the singing bee. 
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow — 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go." 



KORNER AND HIS SISTER. 



Charles Theodore Korner, the celebrated young Ger- 
man poet and soldier, was killed in a skirmish with a 
detachment of French troops, on the SOth of August, 
1813, a few hours after the composition of his popular 
piece, " The Sword Song." He was burled at the vil- 
lage of Wobbelin in Mecklenburgh, under a beautiful 
oak, in a recess of which he had frequently deposited 
verses composed by him while campaigning in its vici- 
nity. The monument erected to his memory is of cast 
iron ; and the upper part is wrought into a lyre and 
sword, a favourite emblem of Korner's, from which one 
of his works had been entitled. Near the grave of the 
poet is that of his only sister, who died of grief for his 
loss, having only survived him long enough to complete 
his portrait and a drawing of his burial-place. Over 
the gate of the cemetery is engraved one of his own 
lines : — 

" Vergiss die treuen Todten nicht." 
Forget not the faithful dead. 
See Richardson^ s Translation of Korner'' s Life and 
Works, and Downes' Letters from Mecklenburgh. 



Green wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest. 
Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest, 

And, in the stillness of thy country's breast. 
Thy place of memory as an altar keepest ; 

Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was pour'd. 
Thou of the Lyre and Sword I 

Rest, bard ! rest, soldier ! — by the father's hand 
. Here shall the child of after'years be led. 
With his wreath-offering silently to stand 

In the hush'd presence of the glorious dead. 
Soldier and bard ! for thou thy path hast trod 
With freedom and with God. 

The oak waved proudly o'er thy burial-rite. 
On thy crown'd bier to slumber warriors bore 
thee. 
And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight 
Wept as they vail'd their drooping banners o'er 
thee. 
And the deep guns with rolling peal gave token. 
That Lyre and Sword were broken. 



Thou hast a hero's tomb ;— a lowlier bed 
Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying — 

The gentle girl, that bow'd her fair young head 
When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. 

Brother, true friend ! the tender and the brave — 
She pined to share thy grave. 

Fame was thy gift from others ; — but for her, 

To whom the wide world held that only spot, 
She loved thee ! — lovely in your lives ye were. 

And in your early deaths divided not. 
Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy: — What hath 
she?— 
Her own blest place by thee ! 

It was thy spirit, brother, which had made 
The bright earth glorious to her thoughtful eye, 

Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye play'd, 
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky. 

Ye were but two — and, when that spirit pass'd, 
Woe to the one, the last ! 

Woe, yet not long ! — She linger'd bttt to trace 
Thine image from the image in her breast — 

Once, once again to see that buried face 
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest. 

Too sad a smile ! its living light was o'er — ■ 
It ansvver'd hers no more. 

The earth grew silent when thy voice departed. 
The home too lonely whence thy step had fled : 

What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted ? 
Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead ! 

Softly she perish'd ; — be the Flower deplored 
Here with the Lyre and Sword ! 

Have ye not met ere now ? — so let those trust 

That meet for moments but to part for years — 
That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from 
dust — 
That love, where love is but a fount of tears. 
Brother, sweet sister ! peace around ye dwell : — 
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell !"* 



THE DEATH-DAY OF KORNER.t 

A SONG for the death-day of the brave — 

A song of pride ! 
The youth went down to a hero's grave, 
with the Sword, his bride. | 

He went, with his noble heart unworn, 

And pure, and high ; 
An eagle stooping from clouds of morn, 

Only to die I 

He went with the lyre whose lofty tone 

Beneath his hand 
Had thrill'd to the name of his God alone 

And his father-land. 

And vi'ith all his gloriotis feelings yet 

In their first glow. 
Like a southern stream that no frost hath met 

To chain its flow. 

A song for the death-day of the brave — 

A song of pride 1 
For him that went to a hero's grave. 

With the Sword, his bride. 

*■ The following lines, recently addressed to the author of the 
above, by the venerable father of Korner, who, with the mother, 
stiil survives the " Lyre, Sword, and Flower," here commemorated, 
may not be uninteresting to the German reader. 

Wohllaut tont aus der Feme von frenndlichen Luften getragen, 
Schmeiehelt mit linJernder Kraft sich in der Trauernden Ohr, 
Stirkt den erhebenden Glauben an snicher seelen Verwandschaft, 
Die zum Tempel die brust nur fur das Wurdige weihn. 
Aus dem Lande zu dem sich stets der gefeyerte Jungling 
Hingezogen gef uhlt, wird ihm cin glazender Lohn. 
Heil dem Brittischen Volke, wenn ihm das Deutsche nicht fremd ist ! 
Uber Lander und Meer reichen sich beyde die Hand. 

Thcodor Korner's Vater, 

t On reading part of a letter from Korner's father, addressed to 
Mr. Richardson, the translator of his vvorlis, in which he speaks of 
" The death-day of his sod." 

} See the Sword Song, composed on the moruing of his death. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



327 



He hath left a voice in his trumpet lays 

To turn the flight, 
And a guiding spirit for after-days, 

Like a watch-fire's light. 

And a grief in his father's soul to rest, 

'Midst all high thought ; 
And a memory unto his mother's breast, 

With healing fraught. 

And a name and fame above the blight 

Of earthly breath. 
Beautiful— beautiful and bright. 

In life and death! 

A song for the death of the brave— 

A song of pride ! 
For him that went to a hero's grave. 

With the Sword, his bride ! 



INVOCATION. 

I call'd on dreams and visions, to disclose 

That which is veil'd from waking thought; conjured 

Eternity, as men constrain a ghost 

To appear and answer. 

VFoj-dswofth. 

Answer me, burning stars of night ! 

Where is the spirit gone, 
That past the reach of human sight, 

As a swift breeze hath flown ?— 
And the stars answer'd me—" We roll 

In light and power on high ; 
But, of the never-dying soul, 

Ask that which cannot die." 

Oh ! many-toned and chainless wind! 

Thou art a wanderer free ; 
Tell me if thou its place canst find, 

Far over mount and sea ?— 
And the wind murmur'd in reply— 

•' The blue deep I have cross'd. 
And met its barks and billows high. 

But not what thou hast lost." 

Ye clouds that gorgeously repose 

Around the setting sun. 
Answer ! have ye a home for those 

Whose earthly race is run ? — 
The bright clouds answer'd— "We depart 

We vanish from the sky ; ' 

Ask what is deathless in thy heart. 

For that which cannot die." 

Speak then, thou voice of God within, 

Thou of the deep, low tone ! 
Answer me, through life's restless din 

Where is the spirit flown ?— 
And the voice answer'd—" Be thou still ! 

Enough to know is given ; 
Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfil, 

Thine is to trust in Heaven." 



AN HOUR OF ROMANCE. 



I come 
To this sweet place for quiet. Every tree. 
And bush, and fragrant flower, and hilly path, 
And thymy mound that flings unto the winds 
Its morning incense, is my friend. 

Marry Cornwall. 

There were thick leaves above me and around 
And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood'' 
sleep, 

Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound 
As of soft showers on water; dark and deep 

Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still 

They seom'd but pictured glooms : a hidden rill 



Made music, such as haunts us in a dream 
Under the fern tufts ; and a tender gleam 
Of soft green light, as by the glowworm shed. 

Came pouring through the woven beach boughs 
down, 
And steep'd the magic page wherein I read 

Of royal chivalry and old renown 
A tale of Palestine.*— Meanwhile the bee 

Swept past me with a tone of summer hours 

A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers 
Blue sivies and amber sunshine : brightly free 
On filmy wings, the purple dragon-fly ' 

Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by ; 
And a sweet voice of sorrow told the' dell 

Where sat the lone wood-pigeon ; 

But ere long, 
All sense of these things faded, as the spell 
Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew 

strong 
On my chain'd soul :— 't was not the leaves I heard ; 
A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirr'd. 
Through its proud floating folds :— 't was not the 

brook. 
Singing in secret through its grassy glen ;— 
A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen 
Peal'd from the desert's lonely heart, and shook 
The burning air. — Like clouds when winds are 

high. 
O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby, 
And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear 
Flash'd where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear 
Shadow'd by graceful palm-trees. Then the shout 
Of merry England's joy swell'd freely out. 
Sent through an eastern heaven, whose glorious 

hue 
Made shields dark m.irrors to its depths of blue: 
And harps were there — I heard their sounding 

strings. 
As the waste echo'd to the mirth of kings.— 
The bright masque faded.— Unto life's worn track, 
What call'd me from its flood of glory back ? 
A voice of happy childhood !— and they pass'd. 
Banner, and harp, and Paynim's trumpet's blast; 
Yet might I scarce bewail the splendours gone 
My heart so leap'd to that sweet laughter's tone. 



A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND- 



His very heart athirst 
To gaze at Nature in her green array. 
Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd 
With visions prompted by intense desire; 
Fair fields appear below, such as he left 
Far distant, such as he would die to find :— 
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more. 

Cowper. 

The hollow dash of waves !— the ceaseless roar '— 
Silence, ye billows !— vex my soul no more. 

There's a spring in the woods by my sunny home 
Atar from the dark sea's tossing foam; * 

Oh ! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear, 
As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear ! ' 
And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws, 
Through the feathery fern and the olive boughs 
And the gleam on its path as it steals away 
Into deeper shades from the sultry day, 
And the large water-lilies that o'er its bed 
Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread 
They haunt me ! I dream of that bright sprin<>-'s 

flow, " 

I thirst for its rills like a wounded roe ! 

Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry ! 
My spirit sickens, as thy wing sweeps by. 

Know ye my home, with the lulling sound 

Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round' 

Know ye it, brethren ! where bower'd it lies. 

Under the purple of southern skies? 

With the streamy gold of the sun that shines 

In through the cloud of its clustering vines. 



Palestine— Tales of the Crusaders. 



328 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



And the summer breath of the myrtle flowers, 

Borne from the mountains in dewy hours, 

And the fire-fly's glance tiirough the dark'nmg 

shades, 
Like shooting stars in the forest glades. 
And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall— 
Speak! have ye known, have ye felt them all ? 

The heavy rolling surge ! the rocking mast ! 
Hush! give my dream's deep music way, thou blast. 

Oh, the glad sounds of the joyous earth ! 

The notes of the singing cicala's mirth. 

The murmurs that live in the mountain pines, 

The sighing of reeds as the day declines. 

The wines flitting home through the crimsoBglow 

That steeps the wood when the sun is low. 

The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill 

To the heart of the leaves when the winds are 

still— 
I hear them !— around me they rise, they swell. 
They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell— 
They come with a breath from the fresh spring- 
time. 
And waken my youth in its hour of prime. 

The white foam dashes high— away, away! 
Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray . 

It is there!— down the mountains I see the sweep 

Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep, 

With the burden and glory of flowers that they 

bear. 
Floating upborne on the blue summer air. 
And the light pouring through them in tender 

gleams. 
And the flashing forth of a thousand streams! 
Hold me not, brethren ! I go, I go. 
To the hills of my vouth, where the myrtles blow. 
To the depths of the woods, where the shadows 

rest. 
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast. 
To the rocks that resound with the water's play— 
I hear the sweet laugh of my fount— give way ! 

Give way !— the booming surge, the tempest's, roar. 
The sea-bird's wail, shall vex my soul no more. 



THE EFFIGIES. 

Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann : 
Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied. 
AUein die Thranen, die unendlichen 
Der uberliebnen, der verlass'nen Frau, 
Zahlt keine Nachvvelt. 

Goethe. 



Warrior ! whose image on thy tomb, 

With shield and crested head. 
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom 

By the stain'd window shed ; 
The records of thy name and race 

Have faded from the stone, 
Yet, through a cloud of years, I trace 

What thou hast been and done. 

A banner, from its flashing spear, 
Flung out o'er many a fight; 

A war-cry ringing far and clear, 
And strong to turn the flight; 

An arm that bravely bore the lance 
On for the holy shrine;, 

A haughty heart and a kingly glance- 
Chief! were not these things thine? 

A lofty place where leaders sate 

Around the council board ; 
In festive halls a chair of state 

When the blood-red wine was pour'd ; 
A name that drew a prouder tone 

From herald, harp, and bard ; 
Surely these things were all thine own 

So hadst thou thy reward. 



Woman ! whose sculptured form at rest 

By the arm'd knight is laid. 
With meek hands folded o'er a breast 

In matron robes array 'd; 
What was thy tale ?— O gentle mate. 

Of him, the bold and free. 
Bound unto his victorious fate. 

What bard hath sung of thee ? 

He woo'd a bright and burning star— 

Thine was the void, the gloom. 
The straining eye that follow'd far 

His fast receding plume; 
The lieart-sick listening while his steed 

Sent echoes on the breeze ; 
The pang— but when did Fame take heea 

Of grieft obscure as these ? 

Thy silent and secluded hours 

Through many a lonely day. 
While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers. 

With spirit far away ; 
Thy weeping midnight prayers for him 

Who fought on Syrian plains. 
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim— 

These fill no minstrel strains. 

A still, sad life was thine I— long years 

With tasks unguerdon'd fraught — 
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears. 

Vigils of anxious thought ; 
Prayer at the cross in fervour pour'd. 

Alms to the pilgrim given— 
Oh ! happy, happier than thy lord, 

In that lone path to heaven ! 



THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS 
IN NEW-ENGLAND. 

Look now abroad— another race has iili'd 
Those populous borders— wide the wood recedes. 

And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till'd ; 
The land is full of hai-vests and green meads. 

Sryant. 

The breaking waves dash'd high 

On a stern and rock-bound coast. 
And the woods against a stormy sky 

Their giant branches toss'd ; 

And the heavy night hung dark, 

The hills and waters o'er. 
When a band of exiles moor'd their bark 

On the wild New-England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes. 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums. 

And the trumpet that sings of fame : 

Not as the flying come. 

In silence and in fear;— 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang. 
And the stars heard and the sea ! 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean eagle soar'd 

From his nest by the white wave's foam. 
And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd— 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim band ;— 
Why bad they come to wither there. 

Away from their childhood's land ? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high. 

And the fiery heart of youth. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



329 



What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy ground. 
The soil where first they trod ! 

They have left unstain'd what there they found- 
Freedom to worship God. 



THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES. 



.And slight, withal, may be the things which bring 
Bacli on the heart the weight which it would fling 

Aside for everj — it may be a sound — 
A tone of music — summer's breath, or spring — 

A flower— a leaf— the ocean — wliich may wound — 
Striking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound. 
Childe Harold, 



The power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to wa- 
ken 
Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore, 
And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken 
From some bright former state, our own no 
more ; 
Is not this all a mystery ? — Who shall say 
Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends 
their way? 

The sudden images of vanish'd things. 
That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why ; 

Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings, 
Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by ; 

A rippling wave — the dashing of an oar — 

A flower-scent floating past our parents' door ; 

A word — scarce noted in its hour perchance. 
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone ; 

A smile— a sunny or a mournful glance, 
Full of sweet meanings now from this world 
flown ; 

Are not these mysteries when to life they start. 

And press vain tears in gushes from the heart ? 

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams. 
Calling up shrouded faces from tlie dead. 

And witii them bringing soft or solemn gleams, 
Familiar objects brightly to o'erspreail; 

And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear — 

These are night's mysteries — who shall make them 
clear ? 

And the strange inborn sense of coming ill, 
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast. 

In a low tone which naught can drown or still, 
'Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest ; 

Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow 
fall? 

Why shakes the spirit thus ?— 't is mystery all ! 

Darkly we move — we press upon the brink 
Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not ; 

Yes! it may bo, that nearer than we think 
Are those whom death has parted from our lot ! 

Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made — 

Let us walk humbly on, but undismay'd! 

Humbly — for knowledge strives in vain to feel 
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind ; 

Yet undismay'd — for do they not reveal 
Th' immortal being with our dust entwined ?— 

So let us deem ! and e'en the tears they wake 

Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake. 



THE PALM TREE.* 



It waved not through an eastern sky, 
Beside a fount of Araby : 
It was not fann'd by southern breeze 
In some green isle of Indian seas; 

* This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem of 
* Les Jardins.'* 

42 



Nor did its graceful shadow sleep 
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep. 

But fair the exiled palm tree grew 
'Midst foliage of no kindred hue ; 
Through the laburnum's dropping gold 
Kose the light shaft of orient mould. 
And Europe's violets faintly sweet. 
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet. 

Strange look'd it there !— the willow stream'd, 
Where silvery waters near it gleam'd ^ 
The lime bough lured the honey-bee 
To murmur by the desert's tree. 
And showers of snowy roses made 
A lustre in its fan-like shade. 

There came an eve of festal hours— 
Eich music fiU'd that garden's bowers r 
Lamps, that from flowering branches hung^ 
On sparks of dew soft colour flung. 
And bright forms glanced— a fairy show — 
Under the blossoms, to and fro. 

But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng, 
Seem'd reckless all of dance or song : 
He was a youth of dusky mien. 
Whereon the Indian sun had been. 
Of crested brow, and long black hair — 
A stranger, like the palm tree tliere. 

And slowly, sadly moved his plumes,. 
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms : 
He pass'd the pale green olives by. 
Nor won the chestnut flowers his eye ; 
But when to that sole palm he came. 
Then shot a rapture through his frame !' 

To him, to him its rustling spoke, 

The silence of his soul it broke ! 

It whisper'd of his own bright isle, 

That lit the ocean with a smile! 

Aye, to his ear that native tone 

Had something of the sea-wave's moan :. 

His mother's cabin home, that lay 
Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay; 
The dashing of his brethren's oar— 
The conch-note heard along the shore ; — 
All through his wakening bosom swept : 
He clasp'd his country's tree, and wept ! 

Oh, scorn him not !— the strength whereby 

The patriot girds himself to die, 

Th' unconquerable power which fills 

The freeman battling on his hills. 

These have one fountain deep and clear — 

The same whence gush'd that child-like tear !: 



THE departed; 



Thou Shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings. 
The powerful of the earth— the w ise — the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. 

Eryant, 

And shrink ye from the way 

To the spirit's distant shore ? — 
Earth's mightiest men, in arm'd array,, 

Are thither gone before. 

The warrior kings, whose banner 

Flew far as eagles fly, 
They are gone where swords avail them not, 

From the feast of victosy. 

And the seers who sat of yore 

By orient palm or wave, 
Tliey have pass'd with all their starry lore — 

Can ye still fear the grave ? 



330 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



We fear ! we fear ! — the sunshine 

Is joyous to behold, 
And we reck not of the buried kings, 

Nor the awful seers of old. 

Ye shrink! — the bards whose lays 
Have made your deep hearts burn — 

They have left the sun, and the voice of praise ! 
For the land whence none return. 

And the beautiful, whose record 

Is the verse that cannot die. 
They too are gone, with their glorious bloom. 

From the love of human eye. 

Would ye not join that throng 

Of the earth's departed flowers, 
And the masters of the mighty song 

In their far and fadeless bowers ? 

Those songs are high and holy. 

But they vanquish not our fear ; 
Not from our path those flovi'ers are gone — 

We fain would linger liere ! 

Linger then yet awhile. 

As the last leaves on the bough! — 
Ye have loved the light of many a smile, 

That is taken from you now. 

There have been sweet singing voices 
In your walk.s, that now are still ; 

There are seats left void in your earthly homes. 
Which none again may fill. 

Soft eyes are seen no more. 

That made spring-time in your heart ; 
Kindred and friends are gone before — 

And ye still fear to part ? 

We fear not now, we fear not ! 

Though the way through darkness bends; 
Our souls are strong to follow them, 

Our own familiar friends I 



THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP, 

SUGGESTED BY A MONUMENT OF CHANTREy's. 



Thou sleepest— but when wilt thou wake, fair 

child? 
When the fawn awakes in the forest wild? 
When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of 

morn ? 
When the first rich breath of the rose is born ?— 
Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies 
Too deep and still on thy soft-seal'd eyes ; 
Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see — 
When will the hour of thy rising be? 

Not when the fawn wakes, not when the lark 
On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark- 
Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet 
The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet ; 
Love, with sad kisses unfelt, hath press'd 
Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast ; 
And the glad spring, calling out bird and bee, 
Shall colour all blossoms, fair child! but thee. 

Thou'rt gone from us, bright one!— that thou 

shouldst die. 
And life be left to the butterfly!* 
Thou'rt gone as a dew-drop is swept from the 

bough — 
Oh ! for the world where thy home is now ! 
Hovi' may we love but in doubt and fear. 
How may we anchor our fond hearts here, 
How should e'en joy but a trembler be. 
Beautiful dust ! when we look on thee ? 



* A butterfly, 
monument. 



if resting on a flower, is sculptured on tlie 



THE SUNBEAM. 



Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall — 
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all ! 
A bearer of hope unto land and sea : — 
Sunbeam ! what gift hath the world like thee ? 

Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles ; 
Tliou hast touch'd with glory his thousand isles ; 
Thou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam. 
And gladden'd the sailor, like words from home. 

To the solemn depths of the forest shades. 

Thou art streaming on through their green arcades, 

And the quivering leaves that have caught thy 

glow. 
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. 

I look'd on the mountains — a vapour lay 
Folding their heights in its dark array : 
Thou brakest forth, and the mist became 
A crown and a mantle of living flame. 

I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot — 
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot ; 
But a gleam of tliee on its lattice fell. 
And it laugh'd into beauty at that bright spell. 

To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, 
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart ; 
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed 
A tender smile on the ruin's head. 

Thou takest through the dim church aisle thy way. 
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day. 
And its high, pale tombs, with their trophies old. 
Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold. 

And thou turnest not from the humblest grave. 
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave ; 
Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, 
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. 

Sunbeam of summer ! oh, what is like thee? 

Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea ! — 

One thing is like thee to mortals given, 

The faith touching all things with hues of Heaven ! 



BREATHINGS OF SPRING. 



Tliou givest me flowers, thou givest me songs j— bring back 
The love that I have lost ! 



What wakest thou. Spring! — sweet voices in the 
woods, 
And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute ; 
Tlion bringest back, to fill the solitudes. 

The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute. 
Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee. 
E'en as our hearts may be. 

And the leaves greet thee. Spring!— the joyous 
leaves. 
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and 
glade. 
Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, 
When thy south wind hath pierced the whispery 
shade. 
And happy murmurs, running through the grass. 
Tell that thy footsteps pass. 

And the bright waters— they too hear thy call. 
Spring, the awakener ! thou hast burst their 
sleep ! 
Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall 
Makes melody, and in the forests deep. 
Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray 
Their windings to the day. 

And flowers — the fairy-peopled world of flowers ! 

Thou from the dust "hast set that glory free. 
Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours. 

And pencilling the wood anemone ; 
Silent they seem— yet each to thoughtful eye 
Glows with mute poesy. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



331 



But what awakest thou in the heart, O Spring ! 

The human lieart, with all its dreams and sighs ? 
Thou that givest back so many a buried thing, 

Restorer of forgotten harmonies ! 
Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou 
art, 

What wakest thou in the heart 1 

Too much, oh! there too much! — we know not 
well 
Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee. 
What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep 
cell, 
Gush for the faces we no more may see ! 
How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone, 
By voices that are gone ! 

Looks of familiar love, that never more. 
Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet. 

Past words of welcome to our household door. 
And vanish'd smiles, and sounds of parted feet — 

Spring ! 'midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, 
Why, why revivest thou these ? 

Vain longings for the dead ! — why come they back 
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living 
blooms 1 
Oh ! is it not, that from thine earthly track 

Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ? 
Yes ! gentle spring ; no sorrow dims thine air, 
Breathed by our loved ones there ! 



THE ILLUMINATED CITY. 



The hills all glow'd with a festive light. 

For the royal city rejoiced by night : 

There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree. 

Banners were lifted and streaming free ; 

Every tall pillar was wreath'd with fire, 

Like a shooting meteor was every spire ; 

And the outline of many a dome on high 

Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky. 

I pass'd through the streets ; there were tlirongs on 

throngs — 
Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs ; 
There was music forth from each palace borne — 
A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn ; 
The forests heard it, the mountains rang. 
The hamlets woke to its haughty clang ; 
Rich and victorious was every tone, 
Telling the land of her foes o'erthrown. 

Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain ! 
Thousands lie dead on their battle plain ! 
Gallant and true were the hearts that fell — 
Grief in the homes they have left must dwell; 
Grief o'er the aspect of childhood spread. 
And bowing the beauty of woman's head : 
Didst thou hear, 'midst the songs, not one tender 

moan. 
For the many brave to their slumbers gone ? 

I saw not the face of a weeper there — 

Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamp's 

glare ! — 
I heard not a wail 'midst the joyous crowd — 
The music of victory was all too loud ! 
Mighty it roll'd on the winds afar, 
Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car ; 
Through torches and streamers its tlood swept by — 
How could I listen for moan or sigh ? 

Turn then away from life's pageants, turn. 

If its deep story thy heart would learn! 

Ever too bright is that outward show. 

Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe. 

But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy 

view 
The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true ; 
Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal — 
So must thy spirit be taught to feel ! 



THE SPELLS OF HOME. 



There blend Ihe ties that strengthen 

Our hearts in hours of grief. 
The silver links that lengthen 

Joy's visits when most brief. 

Bernard Barton. 



By the soft green light in the woody glade. 
On the banks of moss where thy childhood play'd, 
By the household tree through which thine eye 
First look'd in love to the summer sky. 
By the dewy gleam, by the very breath 
Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath, 
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell, 
Holy and precious— oh ! guard it well ! 

By the sleepy ripple of the stream, 
Which hath luU'd thee into many a dream, 
By the shiver of the ivy leaves 
To the wind of morn at thy casement eaves, 
By the bee's deep murmur in the limes. 
By the music of the Sabbath chimes, 
By every sound of thy native shade. 
Stronger and dearer the spell is made. 

By the gathering round the winter hearth 

When twilight call'd unto household mirth, 

By the fairy tale or the legend old 

In that ring of happy faces told. 

By the quiet hour when hearts unite 

In the parting prayer and the kind "Good-night !" 

By the smiling eye and the loving tone, 

Over thy life has the spell been thrown. 

And bless that gift ! — it hath gentle might, 
A guardian power and a guiding light. 
It hath led the freeman forth to stand 
In the mountain battles of his land ; 
It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas. 
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze ; 
And back to the gates of his father's hall 
It hath led the weeping prodigal. 

Yes ! when thy heart, in its pride, would stray 
From the pure first loves of its youth away — 
When the sullying breath of the world would come 
O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's 

home — 
Think thou again of the woody glade, 
And the sound by the rustling ivy made, 
Think of the tree at thy father's door, 
And the kindly spell shall have power once more I 



ROMAN GIRL'S SONG. 



Roma, Roma, Roma ! 
Nod e piu come era prima. 



Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 
On thy seven hills of yore 

Thou satt'st a queen. 

Thou hadst thy triumphs then 

Purpling the street. 
Leaders and sceptred men 

Bow'd at thy feet. 

They that thy mantle wore, 

As gods were seen — 
Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 

Rome ! thine imperial brow 

Never shall rise : 
What hast thou left thee now ?- 

Thou hast thy skies ! 



332 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Blue, deeply blue, they are, 

Gloriously bright ! 
Veiling thy wastes afar 

With colour'd light. 

Thou hast the sunset's glow, 

Rome, for thy dower. 
Flushing tall cypress bough, 

Temple and tower ! 

And all sweet sounds are thine, 

Lovely to hear. 
While night, o'er tomb and shrine, 

Rests darkly clear. 

Many a solemn hymn, 

By starlight sung. 
Sweeps through the arches dim, 

Thy wrecks among. 

Many a flute's low swell, 

On thy soft air 
Lingers, and loves to dwell 

With summer there. 

Thou hast the south's rich gift 

Of sudden song — 
A charmed fountain, swift. 

Joyous, and strong. 

Thou hast fair forms that move 

With queenly tread ; 
Thou hast proud fanes above 

Thy mighty dead. 

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore 

A mournful mien : — 
Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 



deep 



THE DISTANT SHIP. 

The sea-bird's wing, o'er ocean's breast 

Shoots like a glancing star. 
While the red radiance of the west 

Spreads kindling fast and far; 
And yet that splendour wins thee not — 

Thy still and thoughtful eye 
Dwells but on one dark distant spot 

Of all the main and sky. 

Look round thee ! — o'er the slumberinc 

A solemn glory broods ; 
A fire hath touch'd the beacon-steep, 

And all the golden woods ; 
A thousand gorgeous clouds on high 

Burn with the amber light ! — 
What spell, from that rich pageantry. 

Chains down thy gazing sight ? 

A softening thought of human cares, 

A feeling link'd to earth ? 
Is not yon speck a bark, which bears 

The loved of many a hearth 7 
Oh ! do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear, 

Crowd her frail world e'en now. 
And manhood's prayer, and woman's tear 

Follow her venturous prow ? 

Bright are the floating clouds above, 

The glittering seas below, 
But we are bound by cords of love 

To kindred weal and woe. 
Therefore, amidst this wide array 

Of glorious things and fair. 
My soul is on that bark's lone way — 

For human hearts are there. 



THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing! 
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring ? — 
" We come from the shores of the green old Nile, 
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile. 



From the palms that wave through the Indian sky. 
From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby. 

" We have wept o'er cities in song renown'd — 

Silent they lie with the deserts round ! 

We hav(^ cross'd proud rivers, whose tide hath 

roll'd 
AH dark with the warrior-blood of old ; 
And each worn wing hath regain'd its home, 
Under peasant's roof-tree, or monarch's dome." 

And what have ye found in the monarch's dome, 
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam ? — 
" We have found a change, we have found a pall, 
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall. 
And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt — 
Naught looks the same, save the nest we built !" 

O joyous birds, it hath still been so ; 
Through the balls of kings doth the tempest go! 
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep. 
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep. 
Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot, 
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot 7 — 

" A change we have found there — and many a 

change I 
Faces, and footsteps, and all things strange ! 
Gone are the heads of the silvery hair. 
And the young that were have a brow of care. 
And the place is hush'd where the children play'd — 
Naught looks the same save the nest we made !" 

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth, 
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth! 
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air 
Ye have a guide, and shall we despair 7 
Ye over desert and deep have pass'd — 
So may we reach our bright home at last ! 



THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 



They grew in beauty, side by side. 
They fill'd one home with glee ; — 

Their graves are sever'd, far and wide 
By mount, and stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 

O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 
She had each folded flower in sight — 

Where are those dreamers now 7 

One, 'midst the forests of the west, 

By a dark stream is laid — 
The Indian knows his place of rest. 

Far in the cedar shade. 

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one- 
He lies where pearls lie deep ; 

He was the loved of all, yet none 
O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are dre§t, 

Above the noble slain : 
He wrapt his colours round his breast 

On a bloo'd-red field of Spain. 

And one— o'er her the myrtle showers 
Its leaves by soft winds fann'd ; 

She faded 'midst Italian flowers— 
The last of that bright band. 

And parted thus they rest, who play'd 

Beneath the same green tree ; 
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd 

Around one parent knee ! 

They that with smiles lit up the hall, 
And cheer'd with song the hearth- 
Alas ! for love, if tkou wert all, 
And naught beyond, O earth 1 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



333 



MOZART'S REQUIEM. 



A short time before the death of Mozart, a stranger 
of remarkable appearance, and dressed in deep mourn- 
ing, called at his house, and requested him to prepare a 
Requiem, in his best style, for the funeral of a distin- 
guished person. The sensitive imagination of the com- 
poser immediately seized upon the circumstance as an 
omen of his own fate ; and the nervous anxiety with 
■which he laboured to fulfil the task, had the effect of 
realizing his impression. He died within a few days 
after completing this magnificent piece of music, which 
was performed at his interment. 



These birds of Parad 
Back to their nativ 



but long to flee 

Propfiecy of Dante. 



A REQCiEM ! — and for whom ? 

For beauty in its bloom ? 
For valour fall'ii— a broken rose or sword? 

A dirge for king or chief, 

With pomp of stately grief, 
Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored ? 

Not so, it is not so! 

The warning voice I know. 
From other worlds a strange mysterious tone ; 

A solemn funeral air 

It call'd me to prepare, 
And my heart ansvver'd secretly — my own ! 

One more then, one more strain, 

In links of joy and pain, 
Mighty the troubled spirit to enthrall I 

And let me breathe my dower 

Of passion and of power 
Full into that deep lay— the last of all ! 

The last ! — and I must go 

From this bright world below, 
This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound ! 

Must leave its festal skies, 

With all their melodies, 
That ever in my breast glad echoes found ! 

Yet have I known it long: 

Too restless and too strong 
Within this clay hath been th' o'ermastering flame ; 

Swift thoughts, that came and went, 

Like torrents o'er me sent. 
Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame. 

Like perfumes on the wind. 

Which none may stay or bind. 
The beautiful comes floating through my soul; 

I strive with yearnings vain 

The spirit to detain 
Of the deep harmonies that past me roll ! 

Therefore disturbing dreams 

Trouble the secret streams 
And founts of music that o'erflow my breast ; 

Something far more divine 

Than may on earth be mine. 
Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest. 

Shall I then /ear the tone 

That breathes from worlds unkncAfn ? — 
Surely these feverish aspirations there 

Shall grasp their full desire. 

And this unsettled fire 
Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air. 

One more then, on« more strain ; 

To earthly joy and pain 
A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell ! 

I pour each fervent thought 

With fear, hope, trembling, fraught, 
Into the notes tliat o'er my dust shall swell. 



THE IMAGE IN LAVA.* 



was set 



Thou thing of years departed 

What ages have gone by. 
Since here the mournful seal 

By love and agony 1 

Temple and tower have moulder'd, 
Empires from earth have pass'd. 

And woman's heart hath left a trace 
Those glories to outlast! 

And childhood's fragile image 

Thus fearfully enshrined. 
Survives the proud memorials rear'd 

By conquerors of mankind. 

Babe ! wert thou brightly slumbering 

Upon thy mother's breast. 
When suddenly the fiery tomb 

Shut round each gentle guest? 

A strange, dark fate o'ertook you, 
Fair babe and loving heart ! 

One moment of a thousand pangs — 
Yet better than to part 1 

Haply of that fond bosom 

On ashes here inipress'd, 
Thou wert the only treasure, child ! 

Whereon a hope might rest. 

Perchance all vainly lavish'd 

Its other love had been, 
And where it trusted, naught remain'd 

But thorns on which to lean. 

Far better then to perish 

Thy form within its clasp. 
Than live and lose thee, precious onel 

From that impassion'd grasp. 

Oh ! I could pass all relics 

Left by the pomps of old, 
To gaze on this rude monument, 

Cast in aifection's mould. 

Love, human love ! what art thou ? 

Thy print upon the dust 
Outlives the cities of renown 

Wherein the mighty trust ! 

Immortal, oh ! immortal 
Thou art, whose earthly glow 

Hath given these ashes holiness — 
It must, it 7nust be so ! 



THE LAST WISH. 



Well may I weep to leave this world — thee — all these beautiful 
woods, and plains, and hills. Lights and Shadows. 



Go to the forest shade, 

Seek thou the well-known glade. 

Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie, 
Gleaming through moss-tufts deep. 
Like dark eyes flll'd with sleep. 

And bathed in hues of summer's midnight sky. 

Bring me their buds, to shed 

Around my dying bed, 
A breath of May and of the wood's repose ; 

For I, in sooth, depart 

With a reluctant heart. 
That fain would linger where the bright sun glows. 

Fain would I stay with thee — 

Alas ! this may not be ; 
Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours ! 

Go where the fountain's breast 

Catches, in glassy rest. 
The dim green light that pours thro' laurel bowers. 



* The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped to 
the bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum. 



334 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



I know Iiow softly bright, 

Steep'd in that tender light, 
The water-lilies tremble there e'en now; 

Go to the pure stream's edge, 

And from its whispering sedge 
Bring me those flowers to cool my fever'd brow ! 

Then, as in Hope's young days, 

Track thou the antique maze 
Of the rich garden to its grassy mound : 

There is a lone wliite rose. 

Shedding, in sudden snows. 
Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around. 

Well know'st thou that fair tree— 

A murmur of the bee 
Dwells ever in the honey'd lime above; 

Bring me one pearly flower 

Of all its clustering shower — 
For on that spot we first reveal'd our love. 

Gather one woodbine bough, 

Then, from the lattice low 
Of the bower'd cottage which I bade thee mark, 

When by the hamlet last. 

Through dim wood-lanes we pass'd. 
While devs's" were glancing to the glowworm': 
spark. 

Haste ! to my pillow bear 
Those fragrant things and fair ; 

My hand no more may bind them up at eve — 
Yet shall their odour soft 
One bright dream round me waft 

Of life, youth, summer— all that 1 must leave ! 

And, oh! if thou wouldst ask 

Wherefore thy steps I task. 
The grove, the stream, the hamlet vale to trace — 

'T is that some thought of me. 

When I am gone, may be 
The spirit bound to each familiar place. 

I bid mine image dwell 

(Oh ! break not thou the spell!) 
In the deep wood and by the fountain side; 

Thou must not, ray beloved ! 

Rove where we two have roved. 
Forgetting her that in her spring-time died t 



FAIRY FAVOURS. 



Give me but 
Something whereunto I may bind my heart; 
Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp 
Aifection's tendrils round. 



WoDLDST thou wear the gift of immortal bloom ? 
Wouldst thou smile in scorn at the sliadowy tomb ? 
Drink of this cup! it is richly fraught 
With balm from the gardens of genii brought ; 
Drink, and the spoiler shall pass thee by. 
When the young all scatter'd like rose-leaves lie. 

And would not the youth of my soul be gone, 
If the loved had left me, one by one ? 
Take back the cup that may never bless. 
The gift that would make liie brotherless ; 
How should I live, with no kindred eye 
To reflect mine immortality ? 

Wouldst thou have empire, by sign or spell, 
Over the mighty in air that dwell ? 
Wouldst thou call the spirits of shore and steep 
To fetch thee jewels from ocean's deep? 
Wave but this rod, and a viewless band, 
Slaves to thy will, shall around thee stand. 

And would not fear, at my coming then, 
Hush every voice in the homes of men ? 
Would not bright eyes in my presence quail ? 
Young cheeks with a nameless thrill turn pale 7 
No gift be mine that aside would turn 
The human love for whose founts I yearn ! 



Wouldst thou then read through the hearts of 

those 
Upon whose faith thou hast sought repose ? 
Wear this rich gem ! it is charm'd to show 
When a change comes over aftection's glow ; 
Look on its flushing or fading hue, 
And learn if the trusted be false or true I 

Keep, keep the gem, that I still may trust. 
Though my heart's wealth be but pour'd on dust I 
Let not a doubt in my soul have place. 
To dim the light of a loved one's face ; 
Leave to the earth its warm sunny smile — 
That glory would pass could I look on guile ! 

Say then what boon of my power shall be, 
Favour'd of spirits ! pour'd forth on thee ? 
Thou scornest the treasures of wave and mine, 
Thou wilt not drink of the cup divine, 
Thou art fain with a mortal's lot to rest — 
Answer me ! how may I grace it best ? 

Oh ! give me no sway o'er the powers unseen. 
But a human heart where my own may lean ! 
A friend, one tender and faithful friend. 
Whose thoughts' free current with mine may 

blend. 
And leaving not either on earth alone. 
Bid the bright calm close of our lives be one ! 



A PARTING SONG. 



" Oh ! mes Amis, rappellez-vous quelquefois mes vers ; mon ame 
y est empreinte." 

Corinne. 

When will ye think of me, my friends ? 

When will ye think of me? — 
When the last red light, the farewell of day, 
From the rock and the river is passing away — 
When the air with a deep'ning hush is fraught. 
And the heart grows burden'd with tender thought, 

Then let it be ! 

When will ye think of me, kind friends ? 

When will ye think of me ? — 
When the rose of the rich mid-summer time 
Is fiU'd with the hues of its glorious prime — 
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled, 
From the walks where my footsteps no more may 
tread — 

Then let it be ! 

When will ye think of me, sweet friends? 

When will ye think of me ? — 
When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye 
At the sound of some olden melody. 
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream, 
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream, 

Then let it be ! 

Thus let my memory be with you, friends! 

Thus ever think of me ! 
Kindly and gently, but as of one 
For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone— - 
As of a bird from a chain unbound. 
As of a wanderer whose home is found — 

So let it be. 



THE SOUND OF THE SEA. 



Thou art sounding on, thou mighty i 

For ever and the same ! 
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee. 

Those thunders naught can tame. 

Oh ! many a glorious voice is gone 
From the rich bowers of earth. 

And hush'd is many a lovely onft 
Of mournfulness or mirth. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



335 



The Dorian flute, that sigh'd of yore 

Along the wave, is still ; 
The harp of Jiulah peals no more 

On Zion's awful hill. 

And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord 

That breathed the mystic tone, 
And the songs at Rome's high triumphs pour'd, 

Are with her eagles flown. 

And mute the Moorish horn, that rang 

O'er stream and mountain free. 
And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang. 

Hath died in Galilee. 

But thou art swelling on, thou deep, 

Through many an olden clime. 
Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep 

Until the close of time. 

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice 

To every wind and sky. 
And all our earth's green shores rejoice 

In that one harmony. 

It fills the noontide's calm profound, 

The sunset's heaven of gold ; 
And the still midnight hears the sound. 

Even as first it roU'd. 

Let thei'e be silence, deep and strange, 

Where sceptred cities rose ! 
Thmi, speak'st of one who doth not change — 

— So may our hearts repose. 



THE FUNERAL GENIUS. 

AN ANCIENT STATUE. 



THoa should'st be look'd on when the starlight 

falls 
Through the blue stillness of the summer air. 
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls; 
It has too fitful and too wild a glare ! 
And thou ! — thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems 
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams. 

Flowers are upon thy hrow ; for so the dead 
"Were crown'd of old, with pale spring-flowers like 

these : 
Sleep on thine eye hath sunk ; yet softly shed. 
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze ; 
And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom. 
Which of the grove seems breathing — not the 

tomb. 

They fear'd not death, whose calm and gracious 

thought 
Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee ! 
They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought, 
And laid thy head against the forest-tree, 
As that of one by music's dreamy close. 
On the wood-violets luU'd to deep repose. 

They fear'd not death!— yet who shall say his 

touch 
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair? 
Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much 
Of tender beauty as thy features wear ! 
Thou sleeper of the bower ! on whose young eyes 
So still a night, a night of summer, lies I 

Had they seen aught like thee ? — Did some fair 

boy 
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest? 
— His graceful hair no more to wave in joy. 
But drooping as with heavy dews oppress'd! 
And his eye veil'd so softly by its fringe. 
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge ! 

Oh I happy, if to them the one dread hour 
Made known its lessons from a brow like thine! 
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power 
Came by a look, so tranquilly divine ! 
— Let him, who thus hath seen the lovely part. 
Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart I 



But thou, fair slumberer! was there less of woe. 

Or love, or terror, in the days of old. 

That men pour'd out their gladdening spirit's 

flow. 
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold, 
And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king. 
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting ? 

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid 
Far more than we— for loftier faith is ours ? 
Their gems were lost in ashes — yet they made 
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers, 
With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs ar- 

ray'd. 
And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade. 

Is it for MS a darker gloom to shed 
O'er its dim precincts? — do we not intrust 
But for a time its chambers with our dead, 
And strew immortal seed upon the dust? 
— Why should we dwell on that which lies be- 
neath. 
When living light hath touch'd the brow of death? 



OWEN GLENDWYER'S WAR-SONG. 



Saw ye the blazing star? 

The heavens look down on freedom's war, 

And light her torch on high : 
Bright on the dragon crest 
It tells that glory's wing shall rest. 

When warriors meet to die ! 
Let earth's pale tyrants read despair 

And vengeance in its flame. 
Hail ye, my bards ! the omen fair 

Of conquest and of fame. 
And swell the rushing mountain air. 

With songs to Glendwyer's name. 

At the dead hour of night, 

Mark'd ye how each majestic height 

Burn'd in its awful beams! 
Red shone th' eternal snows, 
And all the land, as bright it rose. 

Was full of glorious dreams. 
Oh! eagles of the battles, rise ! 

The hope of Gwynedd wakes — 
It is your banner in the skies, 

Through each dark cloud that breaks,. 
And mantles with triumjihant dyes, 

Your thousand hills and lakes ! 

A sound is on the breeze, 

A murmur, as of swelling seas ! 

The Saxon 's on his way ! 
Lo ! spear, and shield, and lance. 
From Deva's waves with lightning glance' 

Reflected to the day. 
But who the torrent-wave compels 

A conqueror's chains to bear? 
Let those who wake the soul that dwells 

On our free winds, beware I 
The greenest and the loveliest dells 

May be the lion's lair ! 

Of us they told the seers 

And monarch-bards of elder years, 

Who walk'd on earth as powers ; 
And in their burning strains, 
A spell of might and mystery reigns. 

To guard our mountain-towers. 
— In Snowdon's caves a prophet lay, 

Before his gifted sight 
The march of ages pass'd away. 

With hero-footsteps bright. 
But proudest, in that long array 

Was Glendwyer's path of light. 



336 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



TROUBADOUR SONG. 


THE WISH. 


The warrior cross'd the ocean's foam, 
For the stormy fields of war — 

The maifl was left in a smiling home, 
And a sunny land afar. 

His voice was heard where javelin showers 

Pour'd on the steel-clad line ; 
Her step was 'midst the summer flowers, 

Her seat beneath the vine. 


" Holy hath been our converse, gentle friend f 
Full of high thoughts breathing of heavenward 

hope, 
Deepen'd by tenderest memories of the dead ; 
Therefore, beyond the grave, I surely deem 
That we shall meet again." 

Come to me, when my soul 
Hath but a few dim hours to linger here ; 



His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, 
And the red blood stain'd his crest ; 

While she — the gentlest wind of heaven 
Might scarcely fan her breast. 

Yet a thousand arrows pass'd him by, 
And again he cross'd the seas ; 

But she had died, as roses die 
That perish with a breeze. 

As roses die, when the blast is come, 
For all things bright and fair — 

There was death within the smiling home. 
How had death found her there ? 



THE PENITENT'S OFFERING. 
[St. .'tke, vii. 37, 38.] 



Thou that ■Q' . ijpallid cheek. 

And eyes in-s.;. Jness meek. 
And faded locks thatiliumbly swept the ground, 

From their long wanderings won. 

Before the all-healing Son, 
Didst bow thee to the earth, oh, lost and found ! 

When thou would'st bathe his feet. 

With odours richly sweet. 
And many a shower of woman's burning tear. 

And dry them with that hair. 

Brought low the dust to wear 
From the crowded beauty of its festal year. 

Did he reject thee then. 

While the sharp scorn of men 
On thy once bright and stately head was cast? 

No, from the Saviour's mien, 

A solemn light serene. 
Bore to thy soul the peace of God at last. 

For thee, their smiles no more 

Familiar faces wore, 
Voices, once kind, had learn'd the stranger's tone. 

Who raised thee up and bound 

Thy silent spirit's wound? 
He, from all guilt the stainless. He alone ! 

But which, oh, erring child ! 

From home so long beguiled. 
Which of thine offerings won those words of 
Heaven, 

That o'er the bruised reed, 

Condemn'd of earth to bleed. 
In music pass'd, "Thy sins are all forgiven?" 

Was it that perfume fraught 

With balm and incense, brought 
From the sweet woods of Araby the blest ? 

Or that fast flowing rain 

Of tears, which not in vain 
To Him who scorn'd not tears, thy woesconfess'd ? 

No, not by these restored 

Unto thy Father's board, 
Tliy peace, that kindled joy in Heaven, was made; 

But costlier in his eyes. 

By that blest sacrifice. 
Thy heart, thy full deep heart, before Him laid. 



When earthly chains are as a shrivell'd scroll, 
Oh ! let me feel thy presence ! be but near ! 

That I may look once more 
Into thine eyes, which never changed for me; 
That I may speak to thee of that bright shore. 
Where, with our treasure, we have yearn'd to be. 

Thou friend of many days ! 
Of sadness and of joy, of home and hearth ! 
Will not thy spirit aid me then to raise 
The trembling pinion of my hope from earth ? 

By every solemn thought 
Which on our hearts hath sunk, in years gone by,. 
From the deep voices of the mountains caught. 
O'er all the adoring silence of the sky ; 

By every lofty theme, 
Wlierein, in low-toned reverence, we have spoken ! 
By our communion in each fervent dream 
That sought from realms beyond the grave, a to- 
ken ; 

And by our tears for those 
Wliose loss had touch'd our world with hues of 

death ; 
And by the hopes that with their dust repose. 
As flowers await the south wind's vernal breath : 

Come to me in that day — 
The one — the sever'd from all days !— O Friend ! 
Even then, if human thought may then have sway, 
My soul with thine shall yet rejoice to blend. 

Nor then, nor there alone : 
I ask my heart if all indeed must die ; 
All that of holiest feelings it hath known? 
And my heart's voice replies — Eternity .' 



STANZAS. 



Crown ye the brave ! crown ye the brave ! 

As through your streets they ride. 
And the sunbeams dance on the polish'd arms 

Of the warriors, side by side ; 
Shower on them your sweetest flowers. 

Let the air ring with their praise. 
For they come from a far and foreign land. 

The standard of war to raise 1 

Crown ye the brave ! crown ye the brave ! 

They have heard with proud disdain, 
That a tyrant seeks your beautiful land 

To bind in his iron chain ; 
And now they come with hearts and arms. 

To the land that will be free. 
With their blood to give in the cause of those 

Who fight for their liberty I 

Crown ye the brave ! crown ye the brave I 

As they wend them from the shore. 
For many of those who ride gaily now, 

Ye never shall look on more ; 
Amid the battle's fiercest rage. 

Unnoticed and un blest; 
Woe for the forms on the bloody field. 

That will sink to endless rest. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



337 



THE WELCOME TO DEATH. 



" Shall I abide 
in this dull world ? 

, I have 
Immortal longings in ni 



Antony and Cleopatra, 



Thou art welcome, O thou warning voice, 

My soul hath pined for thee ; 
Thou art welcome as sweet sounds from shore. 

To wanderer on the sea. 
I hear thee in the rustling woods, 

In the sighing vernal airs ; 
Thou call'st me from the lonely earth, 

With a deeper tone than theirs. 

The lonely earth ! since kindred steps 

From its green paths are fled, 
A dimness and a bush have fall'n 

O'er all its beauty spread. 
The silence of the unanswering soul 

Is on me and around ; 
My heart hath echoes but for thee. 

Thou still small warning sound! 

"Voice after voice hath died away, 

Once in my dwelling heard. 
Sweet household name by name hath changed 

To grief's forbidden word ! 
From dreams of night on each I call, 

Each of the far removed ; 
And waken to my own wild cry. 

Where are ye, my beloved ? 

Ye left me ! and earth's flowers grew flU'd 

With records of the past, 
And stars pour'd down another light 

Than o'er my youth they cast : 
The skylark sings not as he sang 

When ye were by my side, 
And mournful tones are in the wind, 

Unheard before ye died ! 

Thou art welcome, O thou summonerl 

Why should the last remain ? 
What eye can reach my heart of hearts, 

Bearing in light again ? 
Even could this be— too much of fear 

O'er love would now be thrown — 
Away, away ! from time, from change, 

To dwell amidst mine own ! 



THE VOICE OF MUSIC. 



"Striking the electric chain wherewith ^ 



J are darkly bound." 

Childc Harold, 



Whence is the might of thy master spell? 

Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell 
How canst thou wake, by one gentle breath, 

Passionate visions of love and death ! 

How call'st thou back, with a note, a sigh. 
Words and low tones from the days gone by — 

A sunny glance, or a fond farewell ? 
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell ! 

What is thy power, from the soul's deep spring 
In sudden gushes the tears to bring ; 

Even 'midst the swells of thy festal glee, 
Fountains of sorrow are stirr'd by theef 

Vain are those tears !— vain and fruitless all — 
Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall ; 

For a purer bliss while the full heart burns. 
For a brighter home while the spirit yearns ! 

43 



Something of mystery there surely dwells. 
Waiting thy touch, in our bosom-cells ; 

Something that finds not its answer here— 
A chain to be clasp'd in another sphere. 

Therefore a current of sadness deep. 
Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to 
sweep. 
Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky- 
Like a name of the dead when the wine foams 
high! 

Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught 
With vain remembrance and troubled thought ;— 

Speak ! for thou tellest my soul that its birth 
Links it with regions more bright than earth. 



SWISS HOME-SICKNESS. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE LAST OF THE MELODIES 
SUNG BY THE TYROLESE FAMILY. 



"Hers mein Herz, warum so traurlg,"&e. 



Wherefore so sad and faint, my heart? 

The stranger's land is fair ; 
Yet weary, weary still thou art— 

What find'st thou wanting there ? 

What wanting?— all, oh ! all I love t 

Am I not lonely hen 
Through a fair land in loth I rove, 

Yet what like home dear? 

My home ! oh! thith. ould I fly 

Where the free air : sweet. 
My father's voice, my iiother's eye. 

My own wild hills to greet. 

My hills with all their soaring steeps,. 

With all their glaciers bright. 
Where in his joy the chamois leaps 

Mocking the hunter's might. 

Oh ! but to hear the herd-bell's sound. 
When shepherds lead the way 

Up the high Alps, and children bound,. 
And not a lamb will stay ! 

Oh ! but to climb the uplands free. 
And, where the pure streams foam,. 

By the blue shining lake, to see, 
Once more, my hamlet-home ! 

Here, no familiar look I trace ; 

I touch no friendly hand ; 
No child laughs kindly in my face — 

As in my own bright land ! — 



MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION. 



Elle etait du monde, ou les plus belles choaes 

Ont le pire destin ; 
Et Rose, elle a dure, ce que durent les roses, 

L'espace d'un matin. 



Earth ! guard what here we lay in holy trust ; 

That which hath left our home a darken 'd place. 
Wanting the form, the smile, now veil'd withdust, 

The light departed with our loveliest face. 
Yet from thy bonds undying hope springs free — 
We have but lent our beautiful to thee. 

But thou, oh Heaven ! keep ! keep what TJiou hast 
taken. 
And with our treasure keep our hearts on high. 
The spirit meek, and yet by pain unshaken. 

The faith, the love, the lofty constancy. 
Guide us where these are with our sister flown — 
They vv'ere of Thee, and thou hast claim'd thine 
own ! 



338 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



THE VOICE OF SPRING. 



I come! I come ! ye have call'd me long, 
I come o'er the mountains with light and song! 
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, 
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth. 
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves opening as I pass. 

I have breathed on the south, and the chestnut 

flowers 
By thousands have burst from the forest bowers, 
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes. 
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains ; 
— But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! 

I have look'd o'er the hills of the stormy north, 
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth. 
The fisher is out on the sunny sea. 
And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free. 
And the pine has a fringe of softer green. 
And the moss looks bright, where my foot hath 
been. 

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing 

sigh, 
And call'd out each voice of the deep-blue sky ; 
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, 
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime. 
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes. 
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. 

From the streams and founts I have loosed the 

chain. 
They are sweeping on to the silvery main. 
They are flashing down from the mountain brows, 
They are flinging spray o'er the forest-boughs. 
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves. 
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves ! 

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come I 
Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
Ye of the i-ose lip and the dew-bright eye. 
And the boundless footsteps to meet me, fly ! 
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous 

lay. 
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay. 

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, 
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen ! 
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth, 
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth ! 
Their light stems thrill to the wild wood-strains. 
And youth is abroad in my green domains. 

But ye — ye are changed since ye met me last ! 
There is something bright from your features 

pass'd ! 
There is that come over your brow and eye, 
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must 

die! 
— Ye smile ! but your smile hath a dimness yet — 
Oh 1 what have ye look'd on since last we met ? 

Ye are changed, ye are changed ! — and I see not 

here 
All whom I saw in the vanish'd year; 
There were graceful heads with their ringlets 

bright, 
Which toss'd in the breeze with a play of light. 
There were eyes in whose glistening laughter 

lay 
No faint remembrance of dull decay ! 

There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's 

head, 
As if for a banquet all earth was spread ; 
There were voices that rung tlirough the sapphire 

sky. 
And had not a sound of mortality '. 
Are they gone ? is their mirth from the mountains 

pass'd ? 
— Ye have look'd on death since ye met me last ! 



I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now, 
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow ! 
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace. 
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race, 
With their laughing eyes ami their festal crown, 
They are gone from among you in silence down. 

They are gone from among you, the young and 

fair. 
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair ! 
— But I know of a land where there falls no 

blight, 
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light ! 
Where Death 'midst the blooms of the morn may 

dwell, 
I tarry no longer — farewell, farewell! 

The summer is coming, on soft winds borne. 
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ! 
For me I depart to a brighter shore, 
Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more. 
I go where the loved who have left you dwell. 
And the flowers are not Death's— fare ye well, 
farewell ! 



A THOUGHT OF THE ROSE. 



Rosa, Rosa ! per che sulla tua belta 
Sempre e scritta questa parola. 



How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom, 
Rose! ever wearing beauty for thy dower ! 

The bridal day — the festival — the tomb — 
Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest 
flower ! 

Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by 
A thousand images of love and grief. 

Dreams, fill'd with tokens of mortality. 
Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief. 

Not such thy spells o'er those that hail'd thee first 
In the clear light of Eden's golden day ! 

There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst, 
Link'd with no dim remembrance of decay. 

Rose ! for the banquet gather'd, and the bier ; 

Rose ! colour'd now by human hope or pain ; 
Surely where death is not — nor change, nor fear, 

Yet may we meet thee, Joy's own flower, again ! 



THE CHILD AND DOVE. 

SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY's STATUE OF LADY 
LOUISA RUSSELL. 



Thoc art a thing on our dreams to rise, 
'Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies. 
And to fling bright dew from the morning back, 
Fair form on each image of childhood's track. 

Thou art a thing to recall the hours. 

When the love of our souls was on leaves and 

flowers. 
When a world was our own in some dim sweet 

grove. 
And treasure untold in one captive dove. 

Are they gone ? can we think it, while thou art 

there. 
Thou joyous child with the clustering hair? 
Is it not Spring that indeed breathes free 
And fresh o'er each thought, while we gaze on 

thee ? 

No ! never more may we smile as thou 
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow ; 
Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine 
A memory of beauty undimm'd as thine. 

To have met the joy of thy speaking face, 
To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace. 
To have linger'd before thee, and turn'd and 

borne 
One vision away of the cloudless morn. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



339 



THE VAUDOIS VALLEYS. 



Yes, thou hast met the sun's last smile, 

From the haunted hills of Rome ; 
By many a bright jEgean isle, 

Thou hast seen the billows foam ; 

From the silence of the Pyramid 
Thou hast watch'd the solemn flow 

Of the Nile, that with its waters hid 
The ancient realm below. 

Thy heart hath burn'd as shepherds sung 

Some wild and warlike strain. 
Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung 

Through the pealing hills of Spain : 

And o'er the lonely Grecian streams 

Thou hast heard the laurels moan. 
With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams 

Of the glory that is gone. 

But go thou to the pastoral vales 

Of the Alpine mountains old. 
If thou wouldst hear immortal tales, 

By the wind's deep whispers toldl 

Go, if thou lovest the soil to tread. 

Where man hath nobly striven. 
And life, like incense, hath been shed. 

An offering unto heaven. 

For o'er the snows, and round the pines. 

Hath swept a noble flood ; 
The nurture of the peasant's vines 

Hath been the martyr's blood ! 

A spirit, stronger than the sword, 

And loftier than despair. 
Through all the heroic region pour'd. 

Breathes in the generous air. 

A memory clings to every steep 

Of long-enduring faith. 
And the sounding streams glad record keep 

Of courage unto death. 

Ask of the peasant where his sires 

For truth and freedom bled. 
Ask, where were lit the torturing fires. 

Where lay the holy dead ; 

And he will tell thee, all around. 

On fount, and turf, and stone. 
Far as the chamois' foot can bound, 

Their ashes have been sown I 

Go, when the sabbath bell is heard* 

Up through the wilds to float. 
When the dark old woods and caves are stirr'd 

To gladness by the note ; 

When forth, along their thousand rills, 

The mountain people come. 
Join thou their worship on those hills 

Of glorious martyrdom. 

And while the song of praise ascends, 

And while the torrent's voice 
Like the swell of many an organ blends. 

Then let thy soul rejoice ! 

Eejoice, that human heart, through scorn, 
■Througli shame, through death, made strong. 

Before the rocks and heavens have borne 
Witness of God so long ! 



*See *GiUey'3 Researches amnntr the mountains of Piedmont,' 
for an interesting description of a sabbath day in the upper regions 
of the Vaudois. The inhabitants of those Protestant valleys, who, 
like the Swiss, repair with their flocks and herds to the summits of 
the hills, during the summer, are followed tliithei" by their pastors, 
and at that season of the year, assemble on that sacred day, to wor- 
ship in the open air. 



CHRIST'S AGONY IN THE GARDEN. 



He knelt— the Saviour knelt and pray'd. 

When but His Father's eye 
Look'd through the lonely garden's shade, 

On that dread agony ! 
The Lord of all, above, beneath. 
Was bovv'd with sorrow unto death. 

The sun set in a fearful hour. 

The skies might well grow dim, 
When this mortality had power 

So to o'ershadow Hira! 
When He who gave man's breath must know 
The very depth of human woe. 

He knew them all — the doubt, the strife, 

The faint perplexing dread, 
The mists that hang o'er parting life, 

All darken'd round his head ! 
And the Deliverer knelt to pray — 
Yet pass'd it not, that cup, avi'ay. 

It pass'd not— though the stormy wave 

Had sunk beneath his tread; 
It pass'd not— though to Him the grave 

Had yielded up its dead. 
But there vi'as sent him, from on high, 
A gift of strength, for man to die.* 

And was His mortal hour beset 

With anguish and dismay ? 
— How may 7ee meet our conflict yet. 

In the dark narrow way? 
How, but through Him, that path who trod? 
Save, or we perish. Son of God ! 



THE VOICE OF GOD. 
' I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid.' 

Amidst the thrilling leaves, thy voice 

At evening's fall drew near; 
Father ! and did not man rejoice 

That blessed sound to hear ? 

Did not his heart within him burn, 

Touch'd by the solemn tone? 
Not so ! for, never to return. 

Its purity was gone. 

Therefore, 'midst holy stream and bower, 

His spirit shook with dread, 
And call'd the cedars, in that hour. 

To veil his conscious head. 

Oh ! in each wind, each fountain flow. 

Each whisper of the shade. 
Grant me, my God, thy voice to know, 

And not to be afraid ! 



TO THE SEA. 



Thod glorious sea ! more pleasing far 
When all thy waters are at rest. 

And noonday sun, or midnight star 
Is shining on thy waveless breast. 

More pleasing far, than when the wings 
Of stormy winds are o'er thee spread. 

And every billowy mountain flings 
Aloft to heaven its foaming head. 

Yet is the very tempest dear. 

Whose mighty voice but tells of thee ; 
For, wild, or calm, or far or near, 

I love thee still, thou glorious sea ! 



* " And there appeared 3 
ening him."~Sr. Luke, xj 



n^el unto bim from Heaven, strength. 



340 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



ON A LEAP FROM THE TOMB OP VIRGIL. 



And was thy home, pale wither'd thing. 

Beneath the rich bhje southern sky ? 
Wert thou a nursling of the spring. 
The winds and suns of glorious Italy? 

Those suns in golden light, e'en now, 
Look'd o'er the poet's lovely grave, 
Those winds are breathing soft, but thou, 
Answering their whisper, there no more shall 
wave. 
The flowers, o'er Posilippo's brow. 

May cluster in their purple bloom. 

But on the o'ershadowing ilex-bough, 

Thy breezy place is void, by Virgil's tomb. 

Thy place is void — oh ! none on earth, 
This crowded earth, may so remain, 
Save that which souls of loftiest birth 
Leave when they part, their brighter home to 
gain. 

Another leaf, ere now, hath sprung 

On the green stem which once was thine — 
When shall another strain be sung 
Like his whose dust hath made that spot a 
shrine ? 



THE ANGELS' CALL. 



** Hark ! they whisper ! angels Gay, 
Sister spirit, come away I" 

Come to the land of peace ! 
Come where the tempest hath no longer sway. 
The shadow passes from the soul away, 

The sounds of weeping cease ! 

Pear hath no dwelling there ! 
Come to the mingling of repose and love, 
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove 

Through the celestial air ! 

Come to the bright and blest 
And crown'd for ever ! — 'midst that shining band, 
Gather'd to heaven's own wreath from every land, 

Thy spirit shall find rest ! 

Thou Iiast been long alone : 
Come to thy mother!— on the sabbath shore, 
The heart that rock'd thy childhood, back, once 
more 

Shall take its wearied one. 

In silence wert thou left ! 
Come to thy sisters '.—joyously again 
All the home-voices, blest in one sweet strain. 

Shall greet their long-bereft. 

Over thine orphan head 
The storm hath swept as o'er a vi'illow's bough : 
Come to thy father !— it is finish'd now; 

Tluj tears have all been shed. 

In thy divine abode 
Change finds no pathway, mem'ry no dark trace. 
And, oh 1 bright victory — death by love no place : 

Come, Spirit, to thy God ! 



THE SPELL. 



There 's such a glory on thy cheek, 
And such a magic power around thee, 

That, if I would, I could not break 
The spell with which thine eyes have bound me. 

Though all my stubborn heart rebel 
Against the thraldom of thy frown. 

The tameless spirit thou canst quell. 
And keep the bursting madness down. 



I vainly struggle to be free ; 

I rouse that withering pride in vain, 
Whose blight might change my love for thee 

To fiery hate or cold disdain. 

I loathe my very soul, that bears 
To drink thy poisonous love-draughts up, 

Until my frenzied spirit swears 
To dash to earth the dazzling cup. 

Yet every effort of my heart 

To cast thee off but draws thee nearer. 
And rage and agony impart 

A venom-charm, that makes thee dearer. 



THE SHEPHERD POET OF THE ALPS. 

" God gave him reverence of laws, 

Yet stirring blood in freedom's cause— 

A spirit to his rocks akin, 

The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein !" 

Coleridge. 

Singing of the free blue sky. 
And the wild flower glens that lie 
Far amidst the ancient hills, 
Which the fountain music fills ; 
Singing of the snow-peaks bright, 
And the royal eagle's flight, 
And the courage and the grace 
Foster'd by the chamois-chase ; 
In his fetters day by day, 
So the shepherd-poet lay. 

Wherefore, from a dungeon-cell, 
Did those notes of freedom swell 
Breathing sadness not their own, 
Forth with every Alpine tone? 
Wherefore can a tyrant ear 
Brook the mountain winds to hear. 
When each blast goes pealing by 
With a song of Liberty ! 

Darkly hung the oppressor's hand 

O'er the shepherd-poet's land. 

Sounding there the waters gush'd. 

While the lip of man was hush'd ; 

There the falcon pierced the cloud. 

While the fiery heart wasf bow'd ; 

But this might not long endure, 

Where the mountain-homes were pure; 

And a valiant voice arose. 

Thrilling all the silent snows ; 

His — now singing far and lone. 

Where the young breeze ne'er was known ; 

Singing of the glad blue sky. 

Wildly— and how mournfully ! 

Are none but the wind and the lammer-geyer. 
To be free where the hills unto heaven aspire ? 
Is the soul of song from the deep glens past, 
Now that their poet is chain'd at last ? 
Think of the mountains, and deem not so ! 
Soon shall each blast like a clarion blow ! 
Yes ! though forbidden be every word. 
Wherewith that spirit the Alps hath stirr'd, 
Yet e'en as a buried stream through earth 
Rolls on to another and brighter birth. 
So shall the voice that hath seem'd to die. 
Burst forth with the anthem of Liberty i 

And another power is moving 

In a bosom fondly loving; 

Oh! a sister's heart is deep. 

And her spirit's strong to keep 

Each light link of early hours. 

All sweet scents of childhood's flowers I 

Thus each lay by Erni sung. 

Rocks and crystal caves anJong, 

Or beneath the linden-leaves. 

Or the cabiti'.s vine-hung eaves, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



341 



Rapid though as bird-notes gushing, 
Transient as a wan cheek's flushing, 
Each in young Teresa's breast 
Left its fiery words impress'd ; 
Treasured there lay every line 
As a rich book on a hidden shrine; 
Fair was that lone girl, and meek, 
With a pale transparent cheek. 
And a deep-fringed violet eye, 
Seeking in sweet shade to lie ; 
Or, if raised to glance above. 
Dim with its own dews of love ; 
And a pure Madonna brow. 
And a silver voice, and low. 
Like the echo of a flute, 
' E'en the last though all be mute. 

But a loftier soul was seen 

In the orphan sister's mien, 

Prom that hour when chains defiled 

Him, the high Alps' noble child; 

Tones in her quivering voice awoke. 

As if a harp of battle spoke; 

Light, that seera'd born of an eagle's nest, 

Flash'd from her soft eyes unrepress'd; 

And her form, like a spreading water flower. 

When its frail cup swells with a sudden 

shower, 
Seem'd all dilated with love and pride. 
And grief for that brother, her young heart's 

guide. 
Well might they love !— those two had grown. 
Orphans together and alone ; 
The silence of the Alpine sky 
Had hush'd their hearts to piety; 
The turf, o'er their dead mother laid. 
Had been their altar when they pray'd ; 
There, more in tenderness than woe. 
The stars had seen their young tears flow ; 
The clouds, in spirit-like descent. 
Their deep thoughts by one touch had blent. 
And the wild storms link'd them to each other. 
How dear can peril make a brother ! 

Now is their hearth a forsaken spot. 

The vine waves unpruned o'er their mountain cot. 

Away, in that holy affection's might. 

The maiden is gone, like a breeze of the night ; 

She is gone forth alone, but her lighted face. 

Filling with soul ev'ry secret place. 

Hath a dower from heaven, and a gift of sway, 

To arouse brave hearts in its hidden way, 

Like the sudden flinging forth on high, 

Of a banner that starteth silently ! 

She hath wander'd through a hamlet-vale, 

Telling its children her brother's tale ; 

And the strains, by his spirit pour'd away. 

Freely as fountains might shower their spray, 

From her fervent lip a new life have caught. 

And a power to kindle yet bolder thought ; 

While sometimes, a melody all her own. 

Like a gush of tears in its plaintive tone. 

May be heard 'midst the lonely rocks to flow. 

Clear through the water-chimes — clear, yet low : 

" Thou'rt not where wild flowers wave. 
O'er crag and sparry cave ; 
Thou'rt not where pines are sounding. 
Or joyous torrents bounding. 

Alas, my brother! 

" Thou 'rt not where green, on high, 
The brighter pastures lie ; 
E'en those thine own wild places. 
Bear of our chain dark traces ; 

Alas, my brother ! 

" Far hath the sunbeam spread. 
Nor found thy lonely bed ; 
Long hath the fresh wind sought thee. 
Nor one sweet whisper brought thee — 
Alas, my brother ! 

" Thou, that for joy wert born, 
Free as the winds of morn. 



Will aught thy young life cherish. 
Where the Alpine rose would perish ? 
Alas ! my brother I 

" Canst thou be singing still. 

As once on every hill ? 

Is not thy soul forsaken. 

And the bright gift from thee taken ? 

Alas, alas, my brother I" 

And was the bright gift from the captive fled ? 

Like the fire on his hearth, was his spirit dead ? 

Not so !— but as rooted in stillness deep. 

The pure stream-lily its place will keep. 

Though its tearful urns to the blast may quiver. 

While the red waves rush down the foaming river, 

So freedom's faith in his bosom lay. 

Trembling, yet not to be borne away ! 

He thought of the Alps and their breezy air. 

And felt that his country no chains might bear ; 

He thought of the hunter's haughty life. 

And knew there must yet be noble strife ; 

But, oh ! when he thought of that orphan maid, 

His high heart melted— he wept and pray'd ! 

For he saw her not as she moved e'en then, 

A wakener of heroes in every glen. 

With a glance inspired, which no grief could tame. 

Bearing on Hope like a torch's flame. 

While the strengthening voice of mighty wrongs, 

Gave echoes back to her thrilling songs ; 

But his dreams were fiU'd by a haunting tone, 

Sad as a sleeping infant's moan ; 

And his soul was pierced by a mournful eye. 

Which look'd on it— oh! how beseechingly ! 

And there floated past him a fragile form. 

With a willowy droop, as beneath the storm. 

Till wakening in anguish, his faint heart strove 

In vain with its burden of helpless love ! 

— Thus woke the dreamer one weary night — 
There flash'd through his dungeon a swift strong 

light ; 
He sprang up — he climb'd to the grating bars, 
— It was not the rising of moon or stars. 
But a signal flame from a peak of snow, 
Rock'd through the dark skies to and fro 
There shot forth another — another still, 
A hundred answers of hill to hill ! 
Tossing like pines in the tempest's way. 
Joyously, wildly, the bright spires play. 
And each is hail'd with a pealing shout. 
For the high Alps waving their banners out! 
Erni, young Erni! the land has risen ! 
— Alas I to be lone in thy narrow prison ! 
Those free streamers glancing, and thou not there, 
— Is the moment of rapture, or fierce despair ? 
— Hark I there 's a tumult that shakes his cell ! 
At the gates of the mountain citadel I 
Hark ! a clear voice through the rude sounds 

ringing, 
— Doth he know the strain, and the wild sweet 

singing ? 

" There may not long be fetters. 
Where the cloud is in earth's array. 
And the bright floods leap from cave and steep, 
Like a hunter on the prey ! 

" There may not long be fetters 
Where the white Alps have their towers ; 
Unto eagle homes, if the arrow comes. 
The chain is not for ours !" 

It is she !— She is come like a day-spring beam. 
She that so mournfully shadow'd his dream I 
With her shining eyes and her buoyant form, 
She is come! her tears on his cheek are warm. 
And oh ! the thrill in that weeping voice ! 
" My brother, my brother ! come forth, rejoice." 

—Poet ! the land of thy love is free, 
—Sister ! thy brother is won by thee ! 



342 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



THE RELEASE OF TASSO. 



There came a bard to Home ; he brought a lyre 
Of sounds to peal through Rome's triumphant sky, 
To mourn a hero on his funeral pyre, 
Or greet a conqueror with its war-notes high. 
For on each cliord had fallen tlie gift of fire, 
The living breath of power and victory — 
Yet he, its lord, the sovereign city's guest, 
Sigh'd but to flee away, and be at rest. 

He brought a spirit, whose ethereal birth 
Was of the loftiest, and whose haunts had been 
Amidst the marvels and the pomps of earth. 
Wild fairy bowers, and groves of deathless green. 
And fields where mail-clad bosoms prove their 

worth. 
When flashing swords lift up the stormy scene — 
He brought a weary heart, a wasted frame, — 
The child of visions from a dungeon came. 

On the blue waters, as in joy they sweep, 

With starlight floating o'er their swells and falls. 

On the blue waters of the Adrian deep. 

His numbers had been sung — and in the halls. 

Where, through the rich foliage, if a sunbeam 

peep, 
It seems Heaven's wakening to the sculptured 

walls,— 
Had princes listened to those lofty strains. 
While the higli soul they burst from pined in 

chains. 

And in the summer gardens, where the spray 
Of founts, far glancing from their marble bed, 
Rains on the flowery myrtles in its play. 
And the sweet limes, and glassy leaves that spread 
Round the deep golden citrons— o'er his lay 
Dark eyes, dark, soft, Italian eyes, had shed 
Warm tears, fast glittering in that sun, whose 

light 
Was a forbidden glory to his sight. 

Oh ! if it be that wizard sign and spell, 
And talisman, had power of old to bind, 
In the dark chambers of some cavern-cell. 
Or knotted oak, the spirits of the wind. 
Things of the lightning-pinion, wont to dwell 
High o'er the reach of eagles, and to find 
Joy in the rush of storms — even such a doom 
Was that higli minstrel's, in his dungeon-gloom. 

But he was free at last ! — the glorious land 
Of the white Alps and pine-crown'd Apennines, 
Along whose shore the sapphire seas expand. 
And the wastes teem with myrtle, and the shrines 
Of long-forgotten gods, from nature's hand 
Receive bright offerings still ; with all its vines, 
And rocks, and ruins, clear before him lay — 
The sea! was taken from the founts of day. 

The winds came o'er his cheek ; the soft winds, 

blending 
All summer-sounds and odours in their sigh; 
The orange groves waved round, the hills were 

sending 
Their bright streams down, the free birds darting 

by, 
And the blue festal heavens above him bending. 
As if to fold a world where none could die! 
And who was he that look'd upon these things ? 
— If but of earth, yet one whose thoughts were 

wings 

To bear him o'er creation ! and whose mind 
Was as an air-harp, wakening to the sway 
Of sunny nature's breathings unconfined, 
With all the mystic harmonies that lay 
Far in the slumber of its chords enshrined. 
Till the light breeze went thrilling on its way. 
— There was no sound that wander'd through the 

sky, ^ 

But told him secrets in its melody. 

Was the deep forest lonely unto him. 
With all its whispering leaves ? Each dell and 
glade 



Teem'd with such forms as on the moss-clad brim 
Of fountains, in their starry grottoes play'd. 
Seen, by the Greek of yore, through twilight dim, 
Or misty noontide in the laurel shade. 
— There is no solitude on earth so deep 
As that where man decrees that man should 
weep! 

But, oh! the life in nature's green domains. 

The breathing sense of joy! where flowers are 

springing 
By starry thousands, on the slopes and plains. 
And the gray rocks— and all the arch'd woods ring- 
ing. 
And the young branches trembling to the strains 
Of wild born creatures, through the sunshine 

winging 
Their fearless flight— and sylvan echoes round, 
Mingling all tones to one Eolian sound. 

And the glad voice, the laughing voice of streams, 

And the low cadence of the silvery sea. 

And reed-notes from the mountains, and the 

beams 
Of the warm sun— all these are for the free ! 
And they were his once more, the bard whose 

dreams 
Their spirit still had haunted— Could it be 
That he had borne the chain?— oh! who shall 

dare 
To say how much man's heart uncrush'd may 

bear? 

So deep a root hath hope I but woe for this. 
Our frail mortality, that aught so bright, 
So almost burthen'd with excess of bliss. 
As the rich hour which back to summer's light 
Calls the worn captive, with the gentle kiss 
Of winds, and gush of waters, and the sight 
Of the green earth, must so be bought with years 
Of the heart's fever, parching up its tears ; 
And feeding a slow fire on all its powers, 
Until the boon for which we gasp in vain. 
If hardly won at length, too late made ours, 
When the soul's wing is broken, comes like rain 
Withheld till evening, on the stately flowers 
Which wither'd in the noontide, ne'er again 
To lift their heads in glory.— So doth Earth 
Breathe on her gifts and melt away their worth. 

The sailor dies in sight of that green shore 
Whose fields, in slumbering beauty, seem'd to lie 
On the deep's foam, amidsi; its hollow roar 
Call'd up to sunlight by his fantasy — 
And when the shining desert -mists, that wore 
The lake's bright semblance, have been all pass'd 

by. 
The pilgrim sinks beside the fountain wave. 
Which flashes from its rock, too late to save. 

Or if we live, if that, too dearly bought. 

And made too precious by long hopes and fears. 

Remains our own — love, darken'd and o'er- 

wrouglit 
By memory of privation, love which wears 
And casts o'er life a troubled hue of thought. 
Becomes the shadow of our closing years, 
Making it almost misery to possess 
Aught watch'd with such unquiet tenderness. 

Such unto him, the bard, the worn and wild, 
And sick with hope deferr'd, from whom the sky, 
With all its clouds in burning glory piled. 
Had been shut out by long captivity ; 
Such freedom was to Tasso. — As a child 
Is to the mother, whose foreboding eye. 
In its too radiant glance from day to day. 
Reads that which calls the brightest first away. 

And he became a wanderer — in whose breast 
Wild fear, which, e'en when every sense doth 

sleep. 
Clings to the burning heart, a wakeful guest, 
Sat brooding as a spirit, raised to keep 
Its gloomy vigil of intense unrest 
O'er treasures, burthening life, and buried deep 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



343 



In cavern tomb, and sought, through shades and 

stealth, 
By some pale mortal, trembling at his wealth. 

But woe for those who trample o'er a mind I 

A deathless thing. — They know not what they do, 

Or what they deal with 1— Man perchance may 

bind 
The flower his step hath bruised; or light anew 
The torch he quenches; or to music wind 
Again the lyre-string from his touch that flew — 
But for the soul !— oh ! tremble, and beware 
To lay rude hands upon God's mysteries there ! 

For blindness wraps that world— our touch may 

turn 
Some balance, fearfully and darkly hung. 
Or put out some bright spark, whose ray should 

burn 
To point the way a thousand rocks among — 
Or break some subtle chain, which none discern, 
Though binding down the terrible, the strong, 
Th' o'ersweeping passions — which to loose on life. 
Is to set free the elements for strife ! 

Who then to power and glory shall restore 

That which our evil rashness hath undone ? 

Who unto mystic harmony once more 

Attune those viewless chords ?— There is but One! 

He that through dust the stream of life can pour, 

The mighty and the merciful alone I 

— Yet oft His paths have midnight for their 

shade — 
He leaves to man the ruin man hath made ! — 



THINGS THAT CHANGE. 



Know'st thou that seas are sweeping 

Where cities once have been? 
When the calm wave is sleeping. 

Their towers may yet be seen ; 
Far down below the glassy tide 
Man's dwelling 's where liis voice hath died ! 

Know'st thou that flocks are feeding 

Above the tombs of old. 
Which kings, their armies leading, 

Have linger'd to behold ? 
A short, smooth greensward o'er them spread 
Is all that marks where heroes bled. 

Know'st thou that now the token 

Of temples once renown'd. 
Is but a pillar, broken. 

With grass and wall-flowers crown'd ? 
And the lone serpent rears her young 
Where the triumphant lyre hath sung ? 

Well, well, I know the story 

Of tiges pass'd away. 
And the mournful wrecks that glory 

Has left to dull decay. 
But thou hast yet a tale to learn 
More full of warnings sad and stern. 

Thy pensive eye but ranges 

O'er ruin'd fane and hall, 
Oh ! the deep soul has changes 

More sorrowful than all. 
Talk not, while these before thee throng, 
Of silence in the place of song. 

See scorn — where love has perish'd; 

Distrust — where friendship grew ! 
Pride — where once nature cherish'd 

All tender thoughts and true ! 
And shadows of oblivion thrown 
O'er every trace of idols gone. 

Weep not for tombs far scatter'd, 

For temples prostrate laid— 
In thine own heart lie shatter'd 

The altars it had made. 
Go, sound its depths in doubt and fear ! 

Heap up no more its treasures here. 



THE PRAYER FOR LIFE. 



O sHNSHTNE and fair earth ! 
Sweet is your kindly mirth. 

Angel of death ! yet, yet awhile delay- 
Too sad it is to part. 
Thus in my spring of heart. 

With all the light and laughter of the day. 

For me the falling leaf 

Touches no chord of grief, 
No dark worm in the rose's bosom lies: 

Not one triumphal tone. 

One hue of hope is gone 
From song or bloom beneath the summer skies. 

Call me not hence away. 

Death, death ! ere yet decay 
Over the golden hours one shade has tltfown ; 

The poesy that dwells 

Deep in green woods and dells. 
Still to my spirit speaks of joy alone. 

Yet not for this, O death I 

Not for the vernal breath 
Of winds, that shake forth music from the trees; 

Not for the splendour given 

To night's dark regal heaven. 
Spoiler! I ask thee not reprieve for these. 

But for the happy love 

Whose light, where'er I rove, 
Kindles all nature to a sudden smile, 

Shedding on branch and flower 

A rainbow-tinted shower 
Of richer life— spare, spare me yet awhile I 

Too soon, too fast thou 'rt come ! 

Too beautiful is home, 
A home of gentle voices and kind eyes ; 

And I the loved of all. 

On whom fond blessings fall 
From every lip — oh! wilt thou rend such ties? 

Sweet sisters! weave a chain 

My spirit to detain ; 
Hold me to earth with strong affection back ! 

Bind me with mighty love 

Unto the stream, the grove, 
Our daily paths — our life's familiar track! 

Stay with me— gird me r6und! 

Your voices hear a sound 
Of hope — a light comes with you and departs: 

Hush my soul's boding knell, 

That murmurs of farewell ! 
How can I leave this ring of kindest hearts! 

Death! grave! and are there those 

That woo your dark repose 
'Midst the rich beauty of the glowing earth? 

Surely about them lies 

No world of loving eyes — 
Leave me, oh leave me unto home and hearth ! 



THE BATTLE-FIELD. 

I look'd on the field where the battle was spread, 
When thousands stood forth in their glancing 

array, 
And the beam from the steel of the valiant was 

shed 
Through the dun rolling clouds that o'ershadow'd 

the fray. 

I saw the dark forest of lances appear, 

As the ears of the harvest unnumber'd they 

stood, 
I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near. 
Like the storm, that lays low the proud pines of 

the wood. 



344 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Afar, the harsh notes of the war-drum were 

roll'd, 
Uprousing the wolf from the depth of his lair ; 
On hish to the gust stream'd the banner's red fold, 
O'er the death-close of hate, and the scowl of 

despair. 

I look'd on the field of contention again. 

When the sabre was sheathed and the tempest 

had past ; 
The wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain, 
And the fern softly sigh'd in the low wailing blast. 

Unmoved lay the lake in its hour of repose. 
And bright shone the stars through the sky's deep- 

en'd blue ; 
And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose. 
Where the foxglove lay gemm'd with its pearl - 

drops of dew. 

But where swept the ranks of that dark frowning 

host, 
As the ocean in might — as the storm-cloud in 

speed ! 
Where now were the thunders of victory's boast — 
The slayer's dead wrath and the strength of the 

steed ! 

Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone. 
To mark the lone scene of their shame or their 

pride ; 
One grass-cover'd mound told the traveller alone. 
Where thousands lay down in their anguish and 

died! 

Oh ! Glory! behold thy famed guerdon's extent. 

For this toil thy slaves through their earth-wast- 
ing lot ; 

A name like the mist, when night-beams are 
spent — 

A grave with its tenants unwept and forgot ! 



THE RECALL. 



*'Alas! the kind, the playful, and the gay, 
They who have gladden'd their domestic board, 
And cheer'd the winter hearth, do they return ?'^ 

Joanna Baillie, 



Come home !— there is a sorrowing breath 

In music since we went ; 
And the early flower-scents wander by. 

With mournful memories blent : 
The sounds of every household voice 

Are grown more sad and deep. 
And the sweet word — brother — wakes a wish 

To turn aside and weep. 

O ye beloved, come home ! — the hour 

Of many a greeting tone. 
The time of hearth-light and of song, 

Returns— and ye are gone ! 
And darkly, heavily it falls 

On the forsaken room, 
Burdening the heart with tenderness. 

That deepens 'midst the gloom. 

Where finds it you, our wandering ones? 

With all your boyhood's glee 
Untamed, beneath the desert's palm, 

Or on the lone mid sea ? 
'Mid stormy hills of battles old, 

Or where dark rivers foam ? 
Oh ! life is dim where ye are not — 

Back, ye beloved ! come home 1 

Come with the leaves and winds of spring, 

And swift birds o'er the main 1 
Our love is grown too sorrowful, 

Bring us its youth again ! 
Bring the glad tones to music back— 

—Still, still your home is fair ; 
The spirit of your sunny life 

Alone is wanting there 1 



THE SUMMONS. 



The vesper-bell, from church and tower. 

Had sent its dying sound ; 
And the household, in the hush of eve. 

Were met, their porch around. 

A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a sud- 
den triumph's power — 
"We rise on all our hills! come forth! 'tis thy 

country's gathering hour. 
There 's a gleam of spears by every stream, in each 

old battle dell- 
Come forth, young Juan ! bid thy home a brief and 
proud farewell." 

Then the father gave his son the sword. 
Which a hundred fights had seen^ 

" Away I and bear it back, my boy ! 
All that it still hath been !" 

"Haste, haste ! the hunters of the foe are up, and 

who shall stand 
The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant 

land? 
Our chase shall sound through each defile where 

swept the clarion's blast. 
With the flying footsteps of the Moor in stormy 

ages past." 

Then the mother kiss'd her son, with tears 

That o'er his dark locks fell : 
" I bless, I bless thee o'er and o'er. 

Yet stay thee not— farewell !" 

" One moment ! but one moment give to parting 

thought or word ! 
It is no time for woman's tears when manhood's 

heart is stirr'd. 
Bear but the memory of thy love about thee in 

the fight, 
To breathe upon the avenging sword a spell of 

keener might." 

And a maiden's fond adieu was heard. 

Though deep, yet brief and low : 
" In the vigil, in the conflict, love ! 

My prayer shall with thee go !" 

" Come forth ! come as the torrent comes when 

the winter's chain is burst ! 
So rushes on the land's revenge, in night and 

silence nursed — 
The night is pass'd, the silence o'er — on all our 

hills we rise — 
We wait thee, youth ! sleep, dream no more 1 the 

voice of liattle cries." 

There were sad hearts in a darken'd home, 
When the brave had left their bower ! 

But the strength of prayer and sacrifice 
Was with them in that hour. 



DEATH OF AN INFANT. 



Death found strange beauty on that cherub brow, 
And dash'd it out. — There was a tint of rose 
On cheek and lip, — he touch'd the veins with ice, 
And the rose faded ; — forth from those blue eyes 
There spoke a wishful tenderness,— a doubt 
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence 
Alone can wear. With ruthless haste he bound 
The silken fringes of their curtaining lids 

For ever ; there had been a murmuring sound. 
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, 
Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set 
His seal of silence. — but there beam'd a smile 

So fix'd and holy from that marble brow 

Death gazed, and left it there ; — he dared not steal 

The signet-ring of Heaven. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



345 



THE BELL AT SEA. 



The dangerous islet called the Bell Rock, on the coast 
of Fife, used formerly to be marked only by a bell, 
which was so placed as to be swung by the motion of 
the waves, when the tide rose above the rook. A light- 
house has since been erected there. 



When the tide's billowy swell 
Had reach 'd its height. 

Then toli'd the rock's lone bell, 
Sternly by night. 

Far over cliff and surge 
Swept the deep sound. 

Making each vifjld wind's dirge 
Still more profound. 

Yet that funereal tone 

The sailor bless'd. 
Steering through darkness on 

With fearless breast. 

E'en so inay we, that float 

On life's wide sea. 
Welcome each warning note 

Stern though it be ! 



A THOUGHT OF HOME AT SEA. 



'T IS lone on the waters, 
When eve's mournful bell 

Sends forth to the sunset 
A note of farewell ! 

When, borne with the shadovrs, 
And winds as they sweep, 

There comes a fond memory 
Of Home o'er the deep ! 

When the wing of the sea-bird 

Is turn'd to her nest. 
And the heart of the sailor 

To all he loves best. 

'Tis lone on the waters — 
That hour hath a spell 

To bring back sweet voices, 
And vvords of farewell! 



A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE. 

Dreamer ! and would st thou know 
If love goes with us to the viewless bourne? 
Wouldst thou bear hence th' unfathom'd source of 
woe 

In thy heart's lonely urn ? 

What hath it been to thee, 
That power, the dweller of thy secret breast ? 
A dove, sent forth across a stormy sea, 

Finding no place of rest : 

A precious odour cast 
On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by ; 
A voice of music utter'd to the blast, 

And winning no reply. 

Even were such answer thine, 

Wouldst thou be blest ? — too sleepless, too pro- 
found. 

Are thy soul's hidden springs; there is no line 
Their depth of love to sound. 

Do not words faint and fail. 
When thou wouldst fill them with that ocean's 

power ? 
As thine own cheek before high thoughts grows 
pale 
In some o'erwhelming power ? 

44 



Doth not thy frail form sink 
Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot, 
When thy heart strives, held down by many a link. 

Where thy beloved are not ? 

Is not thy very soul 
Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed. 
Till a vain tenderness, beyond control. 

Bows down thy weary head ? 

And wouldst thou bear all this, _ 
The burden and the shadow of thy life. 
To trouble the blue skies of cloudless bliss, 

With earthly feelings' strife 1 

Not thus, not thus-^oh no ! 
Not veil'd and mantled with dim clouds of care, 
That spirit of my soul should with me go. 

To breathe celestial air : 

But as the sky-lark springs 
To its own sphere, where night afar is driven. 
As to its place the flower-seed findeth wings, 

So must love mount to Heaven ! 

Vainly it shall not strive 
There on weak words to pour a stream of fire; 
Thought unto thought shall kindling impulse give, 

As light might wake a lyre. 

And, oh ! its blessings there 
Shower'd like rich balsam forth on some dear head, 
Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear 

A joy of sunlight shed ! 

Let me, then, let me dream 
That love goes with us to the shore unknown ; 
So o'er its burning tears a heavenly gleam 

In mercy shall be thrown ! 



TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND AND 
RELATIVE. 

"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see 
God." 

We miss thy voice while early flowers are blow- 
ing. 
And the first flush of blossom clothes each 
bough. 
And the spring sunshine round our home is glow- 
ing. 
Soft as thy smile— thou would'st be with us 
now ! 

With us ! — we wrong thee by the earthly thought — 
Could our fond gaze but follow where thou art, 

Well might the glories of this world seem naught 
To the one promise given the pure in heart. 

Yet wert thou blest e'en here— oh ! ever blest 
In thine own sunny thoughts and tranquil 
faith ; 

The silent joy that still o'erflow'd thy breast. 
Needed but guarding from all change, by death. 

So is it seal'd to peace !— on thy clear brow 
Never was care one fleeting shade to cast. 

And thy calm days in brightness were to flow, 
A holy stream untroubled to the last ! 

Farewell! thy life hath left surviving love 
A wealth of records and sweet " feelings given," 

From sorrow's heart the faintness to remove. 
By whispers breathing " less of earth than 
heaven." 

Thus rests thy spirit still on those with whom 
Thy step the path of joyous duty trod. 

Bidding them make an altar of thy tomb. 
Where chasten'd thought may ofier praise to 
God! 



346 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



SONG. 



" Oh, cast thou not 
Afifection from thee ! ia this bitter world 
Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast, 
Watch— guard it— suffer not a breath to dim 
The bright gem's purity !" 



If thou hast crush'd a flower, 

The root may not be blighted; 
If thou hast quench'd a lamp. 

Once more it may be lighted : 
But on thy liarp or on thy lute. 

The string which thou hast broken 
Shall never in sweet sound again 

Give to thy touch a token ! 

If thou hast loosed a bird, 

Whose voice of song could cheer thee, 
Still, still he may be won 

From the skies to warble near thee ; 
But if upon the troubled sea 

Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded, 
Hope not that wind or wave shall bring 

The treasure back when needed. 

If thou hast bruised a vine. 

The summer's breath is healing. 
And its cluster yet may glow 

Through the leaves their bloom revealing 
But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown. 

With a bright draught fill'd— oh! never 
Shall earth give back that lavish'd wealth, 

To cool thy parch'd lip's, fever ! 

The heart is like that cup. 

If thou waste the love it bore thee. 
And like that jewel gone, 

Which the deep will not restore thee ; 
And like that string of harp or lute 

Whence the sweet sound is scatter'd ; — 
— Gently, oh ! gently tonch the chords. 

So soon for ever shatter'd! 



MAN AND WOMAN. 



" Women act their parts 

When they do make their order'd houses know them^ 
Men must be busy out of doors, must stir 
The city ; yea, make the great world aware 
That they are in it j for the mastery 
Of which they race and wrestle." 

Knowles, 



Warrior ! whose image on thy tomb. 

With shield and crested head. 
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom 

By the stain'd window shed ; 
The records of thy name and race 

Have faded from the stone, 
Yet through a cloud of years I trace 

What thou hast been and done. 

A banner from its flashing spear 

Flung out o'er many a fight ; 
A war-cry ringing far and clear, 

And strong to turn the flight ; 
An arm that bravely bore tlie lance 

On for the holy shrine, 
A haughty heart and kingly glance — 

Chief! were not these things thine? 

A lofty place where leaders sate 

Around the council board ; 
In festive halls a chair of state, 

When the blood-red wine was pour'd ; 
A name that drew a prouder tone 

From herald, hai'p, and bard; 
—Surely these things were all thine own. 

So hadst thou thy reward ! 



Woman ! whose sculptured form at rest 

By the arm'd knight is laid. 
With meek hands folded o'er thy breast 

In matron robes array'd; 

What was t/iy tale ?— Oh, gentle mate 

Of him the bold and free, 
Bound unto his victorious fate, 

What bard hath sung of thee? 

He woo'd a bright and burning star; 

Thine was the void, the gloom. 
The straining eye that foUow'd far 

His oft-receding plume ; 
The heart-sick listening while his steed 

Sent echoes on the breeze ; 
The pang — but when did fame take heed 

Of griefs obscure as these ? 

Thy silent and secluded hours, 

Through many a lonely day 
While bending o'er fliy broider'd flowers, 

With spirit far away ; 
Thy weeping midnight prayers for him 

Who fought on Syrian plains ; 
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim,— 

These fill no minstrel strains. 

A still sad life was thine! — long years, 

With tasks unguerdon'd fraught, 
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears. 

Vigils of anxious thought ; 
Prayers at the cross in fervour pour'd, 

Alms to the pilgrims given ; 
O happy, happier than thy lord, 

In that lone path to heaven I 



THE COTTAGE GIRL. 



A CHILD beside a hamlet's fount at play. 
Her fair face laughing at the sunny day ; 
The cheerful girl her labour leaves awhile. 
To gaze on Heaven's and Earth's unsullied smile. 
Her happy dog looks on her dimpled cheeks. 
And of his joy in his own language speaks. 
A gush of waters tremulously bright. 
Kindling the air to gladness with their light ; 
And a soft gloom beyond, of summer trees. 
Darkening the turf, and shadow'd o'er by these, 
A low, dim, woodland cottage : — this was all ! 

What had the scene for memory to recall. 
With a fond look of love? What secret spell 
With the heart's pictures made its image dwell? 
What but the spirit of the joyous child, 
That freshly forth o'er stream and verdure smiled, 
Casting upon the common things of earth 
A brightness, born and gone with infant mirth ! 



A FAREWELL SONG. 

I GO, sweet friends ! yet think of ine 
When spring's low voice awakes the flowers, 

For we have vvander'd far and free 
In those bright hours — the violet's hours ! 

I go — but when you pause to hear 
From distant hills, the sabbath-bell 

On summer's wind float silvery clear. 
Think of me then— I loved it well ! 

Forget me not around your hearth. 
When clearly shines the ruddy blaze ; 

For dear hath been its hour of mirth 
To me, sweet friends ! in other days. 

And, oh ! when music's voice is heard 
To melt in strains of parting woe ! 

When hearts to tender thought are stirr'd. 
Think on me then ! I go, I go ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



347 



THE RUINED HOUSE. 



No dower of storied song is thine, 

O desolate abode 1 
Forth from thy gates no glittering line 

Of lance and spear hath tiow'd: 
Banners of knighthood have not flung 

Proud drapery o'er thy walls, 
Nor bugle-notes to battle rung 

Through thy resounding halls. 

Nor have rich bovi^ers of Pleasaunce here 

By courtly hands been dress'd. 
For princes, from the chase of deer, 

Under green leaves to rest : 
Only some rose, yet lingering bright 

Beside thy casements lone. 
Tells where the spirit of delight 

Hath dwelt, and now is gone. 

Yet minstrel tale of harp and sword, 

And sovereign beauty's lot, 
House of quench'd light and silent board! 

For me thou needest not. 
It is enough to know that here, 

Where thoughtfully I stand. 
Sorrow and love, and hope and fear 

Have link'd one kindred band. 

Thou bindest me with mighty spells I 

— A solemnizing breath, 
A presence all around thee dwells 

Of human life and death. 
I need but pluck yon garden-flower 

From where the wild weeds rise, 
To wake, with strange and sudden power, 

A thousand sympathies 

Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth. 

Deserted now by all ! 
Voices at eve here met in mirth, 

Which eve may ne'er recall. 
Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone, 

And childhood's language glee, 
And song and prayer have well been known. 

Hearth of the dead ! to thee. 

Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour'd 

Upon the infant head. 
As if in every fervent word 

The living soul were shed; 
Thou hast seen partings — such as bear 

The bloom from life away — 
Alas ! for love in changeful air, 

Where naught beloved can stay 1 

Here, by the restless bed of pain. 

The vigil hath been kept, 
Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain. 

Burst forth on eyes that wept: 
Here hath been feit the hush, the gloom, 

The breathless influence shed 
Through the dim dwelling, from the room 

Wherein reposed the dead. 

The seat left void, the missing face. 

Have here been raark'd and mourn'd; 
And time hath fiU'd the vacant place. 

And gladness hath return'd : 
Till from the narrowing household chain 

The links dropp'd, one by one ; 
And homeward hither o'er the main 

Came the spring-birds alone. 

Is there not cause then— cause for thought, 

Fix'd eye, and lingering tread, 
Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught. 

E'en lowliest hearts have bled ! 
Where, in its ever haunting thirst 

For draughts of purer day, 
Man's soul with fitful strength hath burst 

The clouds that wrapt its way? 



Holy to human nature seems 

The long-forsaken spot ! 
To deep alfections, tender dreams, 

Hopes of a brighter lot ! 
Therefore in silent reverence here, 

Hearth of the dead I I stand. 
Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear, 

Have link'd one kindred band. 



HAUNTED GROUND. 



" And slight, withal, may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Aside for ever :— it may be a sound, 
A tone of music— summer's breath, or spring, 
A flower — a leaf— the ocean — wiiich may wound, 
Strilcing the electric chain wherewith we 're darkly bound." 

Byrmi, 

Yes, it is haunted — this quiet scene. 
Fair as it looks, and all softly green ; 
Yet fear thou not— for the spell is thrown. 
And the might of the shadow on me alone. 

Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays, 
And spirits that dwell where the water plays ? 
Oh ! in the heart there are stronger powers. 
That sway, though viewless, this world of ours 1 

Have I not lived 'midst these lonely dells, 
And loved, and sorrow'd, and heard farewells. 
And learn'd in my own deep soul to look, 
And tremble before that mysterious book? 

Have I not, under these whispering leaves. 
Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves ? 
Shadows— yet unto which life seem'd bound. 
And is it not — is it not haunted ground ? 

Must I not hear what thmi hearest not, 
Troubling the air of the sunny spot ? 
Is there not something, to none but me, 
Told by the rustling of every tree ? 

Song hath been here, with its flow of thought, 
Love — with its passionate visions fraught; 
Death — breathing stillness and sadness round — 
And is it not — is it not haunted ground 7 

Are there no phantoms, but such as come 
By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb ? 
— A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze. 
Can summon up mightier far than these ! 

But I may not linger amidst them here. 
Lovely they are, and yet things to fear. 
Passing and leaving a weight behind. 
And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind. 

Away, away ! that my soul may soar 
As a free bird of blue skies once more ! 
Here from its wing it may never cast 
The chain by those spirits brought back from the 
past. 

Doubt it not — smile not — but go thou too. 
Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew. 
Where thou hast pray'd at thy mother's knee. 
Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free ; 

Go thou when life unto thee is changed. 
Friends thou hast loved as thy soul estranged. 
When from the idols thy heart hath made. 
Thou hast seen the colours of glory fade ; 

Oh ! painfully then, by the wind's low sigh. 
By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup's dye. 
By a thousand tokens of sight and sound, 
Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted 
ground. 



348 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



THE IVY OF KENILWORTH. 



Heard'st tliou what the ivy sigh'd, 
Waving where all else hath died, 
In the place of regal mirth, 
Now the silent Kenilworth ? 

With its many glistening leaves, 
There a solemn robe it weaves ; 
And a voice is in each fold. 
Like an oracle's of old. 

Heard'st thou, while with dews of night, 
Shone its berries darkly bright, 
Yes ! the whisperer seem'd to say, 
"All things — all things pass away ! 

" Where I am, the harp hath rung 
Banners and proud fields among, 
And the blood-red wine flow'd free. 
And the fire shot sparks of glee. 

" Where I am, now last and lone, 
Queenly steps have come and gone ; 
Gorgeous masques have glided by, 
Unto rolling harmony. 

" Flung from these illumined towers. 
Light hath pierced the forest bowers. 
Lake, and pool, and fount have been 
Kindled by their midnight sheen. 

" Where is now the feasting high? 
Where the lordly minstrelsy? 
Where the tourney's ringing spear? 
— I am sole and silent here. 

" In my home no hearth is crown'd, 
Through my hall no wine foams round. 
By my gates hath ceased the lay — 
All things— all things pass away !" 

Yes ! thy warning voice I knew, 
Ivy ! and its tale is true : 
All is passing, or hath pass'd — 
Thou thyself must perish last! 

Yet my secret soul replied, 
" Surely one thing shall al3ide ; 
'Midst the wreck of ages, one,— 
Heaven's eternal Word alone 1" 



THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH. 



"And when tliey came to Marah, they could not drink 
of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter. 

"And the people murmured against Moses, saying, 
What shall we drink ? 

"And he cried unto the Lord ; and the Lord showed 
him a tree, which when he had cast into the w-Tters, the 
waters were made sweet." Exod. xv. 2ii — 25. 



Where is the tree the prophet threw 

Into the bitter wave ? 
Left it no scion where it grew. 

The thirsting soul to save? 

Hath nature lost the hidden power 

Its precious foliage shed ? 
Is there no distant eastern bower 

With such sweet leaves o'erspread ? 

Nay, wherefore ask ?— since gifts are ours. 

Which yet may well imbue 
Earth's many troubled founts with showers 

Of Heaven's own balmy dew. 

Oh ! mingled with the cup of grief, 

Let faith's deep spirit be ; 
And every prayer shall win a leaf 

Prom that blest healing tree ! 



EVENING SONG OF THE TYEOLESE 

PEASANTS.* 



Come to the sunset tree ! 

The day is past and gone ; 
The woodman's axe lies free. 

And the reaper's work is done. 

The twilight star to heaven, 
And the summer dew to flowers. 

And rest to us is given 
By the cool soft evening hours. 

Sweet is the hour of rest ! 

Pleasant the wind's low sigh, 
And the gleaming of the west. 

And the turf whereon we lie. 

When the burden and the heat 

Of labour's task are o'er, 
And kindly voices greet 

The tired one at liis door. 

Come to the sunset tree ! 

The day is pas' and gone ; 
The woodman's axe lies free, 

And the reaper's work is done. 

Yes ; tuneful is the sound 

That dwells in whispering boughs ; 
Welcome the freshness round. 

And the gale that fans our brows. 

But rest more sweet and still 
Than ever night-fall gave. 

Our longing hearts shall fill 
In the world beyond the grave. 

There shall no tempest blow. 
No scorching noontide heat; 

Th«i'e shall be no more snow, 
No weary wandering feet. 

And we lift our trusting eyes. 
From the hills our fathers trod. 

To the quiet of the skies. 
To the Sabbath of our God. 



Come to the sunset tree ! 

The day is past and gone ; 
The woodman's axe lies free. 

And the reaper's work is done ! 



LIGHTS AND SHADES. 



The gloomiest day hath gleams of light, 
The darkest wave hath bright foam near it ; 

And twinkles through the cloudiest night 
Some solitary star to cheer it. 

The gloomiest soul is not all gloom ; 

The saddest heart is not all sadness ; 
And sweetly o'er the darkest doom 

There shines some lingering beam of gladness 

Despair is never quite despair 
Nor life, nor death, the future closes ; 

And round the shadowy brow of care 
Will hope and fancy twine their roses. 



* " The Inved hour of repose is slriking. Let us come to the sun- 
set tree."— See Captain Sherer's interesting " Notes and Reflections 
during a Kamble in Gennany." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



349 



THE CHILDE'S DESTINY. 



THE SUBTERRANEAN STREAM. 



** And none did love him, — not his lemans dear, — 
But pomp and power alone are woman's care j 
And where these are, light Eros finds a frere." 

JSyroru 

No mistress of the hidden skill, 

No wizard gaunt and grim, 
Went up by night to heath or hill. 

To read the stars for him ; 
The merriest girl in all the land 

Of vine-encircled France, 
Bestow'd upon his brow and hand 

Her philosophic glance : 
" I bind thee with a spell," said the, 

" I sign thee with a sign ; 
No woman's love shall light on thee, 

No woman's heart be thine ! 

" And trust me, 't is not that thy cheek 

Is colourless and cold. 
Nor that thine eye is slow to speak 

What only eyes have told ; 
For many a cheek of paler white 

Hath blush'd with passion's kiss ; 
And many an eye of lesser light 

Hath caught its fire from bliss; 
Yet while the rivers seek the sea, 

And while the young stars shine. 
No woman's love shall light on thee. 

No woman's heart be thine ! 

" And 't is not that thy spirit, awed 

By beauty's numbing spell. 
Shrinks from the force, or from the fraud 

Which beauty loves so well ; 
For thou hast learn'd to watch and wake, 

And swear by earth and sky ; 
And thou art very bold to take 

What we must still deny ; 
I cannot tell ; the charm was wrought 

By other threads than mine. 
The lips are liglitly begg'd or bought, 

The heart may not be thine ! 

" Yet thine the brightest smile shall be 

That ever beauty wore. 
And confidence from two or three, 

And compliments from more : 
And one shall give— perchance hath given, 

What only is not love ; 
Friendship, — oh! such as saints in heaven 

Rain on us from above. 
If she shall meet thee in the bower, 

Or name thee in the shrine. 
Oh ! wear the ring, and guard the flower,- 

Her lieart may not be thine ! 

" Go, set thy boat before the blast, 

Thy breast before the gun : — 
The haven shall be reach'd at last, 

The battle shall be won : 
Or muse upon thy country's laws, 

Or strike thy country's lute ; — 
And patriot hands shall sound applause, 

And lovely lips be mute : 
Go, dig the diamond from the wave, 

'The treasure from the mine ; 
Enjoy the wreath, the gold, the grave, — 

No woman's heart is thine ! 

" I charm thee from the agony 

Which others feel or feign ; 
From anger, and from jealousy. 

From doubt, and from disdain : 
I bid thee wear the scorn of years 

Upon the cheek of youth, 
And curl the lip at passion's tears, 

And shake the head at truth : 
While there is bliss in revelry, 

Forgetfulness in wine. 
Be thou from woman's love as free, 

As woman is from thine !" 



"Whose source is inaccessibly profound, 
"Whither do thy mysterious waters tend ? 
—Thou imagest my life." 



Darkly thou glidest onward, 

Thou deep and hidden wave ! 
The laughing sunshine hath not look'd 

Into thy secret cave. 

Thy current makes no music — 

A hollowr sound we hear, 
A muffled voice of mystery, 

And know that thou art near. 

No brighter line of verdure 

Follows thy lonely way ; 
No fairy moss, or lily's cup, 

Is freshen'd by thy play. 

The halcyon doth not seek thee, 

Her glorious wings to lave ; 
Thou know'st no tint of the summer sky, 

Thou dark and hidden wa.ve I 

Yet once will day behold thee, 

When to the mighty sea. 
Fresh bursting from their cavern'd veins. 

Leap thy lone waters free. 

There wilt thou greet the sunshine 

For a moment, and be lost, 
With all thy melancholy sounds 

In the ocean's billowy host. 

Oh ! art thou not, dark river. 
Like the fearful thoughts untold. 

Which haply in the hush of night 
O'er many a soul have roU'd ? 

Those earth-born strange misgivings — 
Wlio hath not felt their power? 

Yet who hath breathed them to his friend. 
E'en in his fondest hour ? 

They hold no heart-communion, 

They find no voice in song, 
They dimly follow far from earth 

The grave's departed tlirong. 

Wild is their course, and lonely, 
And fruitless in man's breast ; 

They come and go, and leave no trace 
Of their mysterious quest 

Yet surely must their wanderings 

At length be like thy way ; 
Their shadows, as thy waters lost, 

In one bright flood of day ! 



FRAGMENT. 



Oh, what is Nature's strength? the vacant eye. 
By mind deserted, hath a dread reply; 
The wild delirious laughter of despair. 
The mirth of frenzy — seek an answer there. 
— Weep not, sad moralist, o'er desert plains, 
Strew'd with the wrecks of grandeur, mouldering 

fanes, 
Arches of triumphs long with weeds o'ergrown, 
And regal cities — now the serpent's own ;— 
Earth has more dreadful ruins — one lost mind 
Whose star is guench'd, hath lessons for mankind 
Of deeper import than each prostrate dome 
Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome. 



350 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



THE CHIEFTAIN'S SON. 



Yes, it is ours !— the field is won, 

A dark and evil field ! 
Lift from the ground my noble son. 
And bear him liomewards on his bloody shield ! 

Let me not hear your trumpets ring 

Swell not the battle-horn ! 
Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring, 
When to the grave my glorious flower is borne ! 

Speak not of victory !— in the name 

There is too much of woe ! 
Hush'd be the empty voice of Fame — 
Call me back his whose graceful head is low. 

Speak not of victory !— from my halls 

The sunny hour is gone ! 
The ancient banner on my walls 
Must sink ere long — I had but hira — but one ! 

Within the dwelling of my sires 

The hearths will soon be cold, 
With me must die the beacon-fires 
That stream'd at midnight from the mountain 

hold. 

And let them fade, since this must be, 

My lovely and my brave ! 
Was thy bright blood pour'd forth for me, 
And is there but for stately youth a grave ? 

Speak to me once again, my boy ! 
Wilt thou not hear my call? 
Thou wert so full of life and joy, 
I had not dreamt of J/tis— that thou couldst fall ! 

Thy mother watches from the steep 

For thy returning plume ; 
How shall I tell her that thy sleep 
Is of the silent house, th' untimely tomb? 

Thou didst not seem as one to die. 

With all thy young renown ! 
— Ye saw his falchion's flash on high. 
In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went 

down ! 

Slow be your march !— the field is won ! 

A dark and evil field ! 
Lift from the ground my noble son, 
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield. 



WOMAN AND FAME. 



THE SLEEPER OF MARATHON. 



I LA.Y upon the solemn plain 

And by the funeral mound, 
Where those who died not there in vain, 

Their place of sleep had found. 

'T was silent where the free blood gush'd, 
When Persia came array'd — 

So many a voice had there been hush'd, 
So many a footstep stay'd. 

I slumber'd on the lonely spot, 

So sanctified by Death — 
I slumber'd — but my rest was not 

As theirs who lay beneath. 
For on my dreams, that shadowy hour, 

They rose — the chainless dead — 
All arm'd they sprang, in joy, in power. 

Up from their grassy bed. 

I saw their spears, on that red field, 

Flash as in time gone by — 
Chased to the seas without his shield 

I saw the Persian fly. 
I woke— the sudden trumpet's blast 

Call'd to another fight — 
From visions of our glorious past. 

Who doth not wake in might ? 



Happy— happier far than thou. 
With the laurel on thy brow ; 
She that makes the humblest hearth 
Lovely but to one on earth. 

Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame, 
A draught that mantles high, 

And seems to lift this earthly fi'ame 
Above mortality. 

Away ! to me — a woman— bring 

Sweet water from afifection's spring. 

Thou hast green laurel leaves that twine 

Into so proud a wreath ; 
"For that resplendent gift of thine, 

Heroes have smiled in death. 
Give me from some kind hand a flower, 
The record of one liappy hour I 

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone 
Can bid each life-pulse beat. 

As when a trumpet's note hath blown. 
Calling the brave to meet : 

But mine, let mine — a woman's breast. 

By words of home-born love be bless'd. 

A hollow sound is in thy song, 

A mockery in thine eye. 
To the sick heart that doth but long 

For aid, for sympathy, 
For kindly looks to cheer it on. 
For tender accents that are gone. 

Fame, Fame! thou canst not be the stay 

Unto the drooping reed. 
The cool fresh fountain in the day 

Of the soul's feverish need : 
Where must the lone one turn or flee? — 
Not unto thee, oh ! not to thee ! 



WE RETURN NO MORE!* 

" When I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 

And saw around me the wide field revive 

With fruits and fertile promise, and the spring 

Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 

With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 

I turn'd from all she brought to all she could not bring." 

Childe Harold. 

" We return — we return — we return no more." 
— So comes the song to the mountain shore. 
From those that are leaving their Highland home, 
For a world far over the blue sea's foam : 
" We return no more !" and through cave and dell 
Mournfully wanders that wild farewell. 

" We return— we return — we return no more." 
—So breathe sad voices our spirits o'er: 
Murmuring up from the depths of the heart, 
Where lovely things with their light depart; 
And the inborn sound hath a prophet's tone, 
And we feel that a joy is for ever gone. 

" We return— we return — we return no more." 
— Is it heard when the days of flowers are o'er ? 
When the passionate soul of the night-bird's lay 
Hath died from the summer woods away? 
When the glory from sunset's robe hath pass'd. 
Or the leaves are borne on the rushing blast ? 

No ! it is not the rose that returns no more; 
A breath of spring shall its bloom restore; 
And it is not the voice that o'erflows the bowers 
With a stream of love through the starry hours ; 
Nor is it the crimson of sunset hues, 
Nor the frail flush'd leaves which the wild wind 
strews. 

"■ " Ha til — ba til— ha til mi tulidle" — we return — we return — we 
return no more,— the burden of the Highland song of emigration. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



351 



" We return — we return — we return no more." 
— Doth the bird sing thus from a brighter shore ? 
Those wings that follow the southern breeze, 
Float they not homeward o'er vernal seas? 
Yes ! from the lands of the vine and palm, 
They come, with the sunshine, when waves grow 
calm. 

" But we— we return — we return no more !" 

The heart's young dreams when their spring is 

o'er ; 
The love it hath pour'd so freely forth, 
The boundless trust in ideal worth; 
The faith in affection — deep, fond, yet vain — 
— These are the lost that return not again 1 



LOVE AND DEATH. 



By thy birth, so oft renew'd 
From the embers long subdued ; 
By the life-gift in thy chain. 
Broken link to weave again ; 

By thine infinite of woe, 
AH we know not, all we know; 
If there be what dieth not, 
Thine affection is its lot ! 

Mighty ones. Love and Death ! 
Ye are strong in this world of ours ; 
Ye meet at the banquets, ye strive 'midst the 
ilowers — 

Which hath the conqueror's wreath ? 

Thoii, art the victor. Love ! 
Thou art the peerless, the crown'd, the free — 
The strength of the battJe is given to thee, 

The spirit from above. 

Thou hast look'd on death and smiled ! 
Thou hast buoy'd up the fragile and reed-like form 
Through the tide of the fight, through the rush of 
the storm. 

On field, and flood, and wild. 

Thou hast stooion the scaffold alone : 
Thou hast watch'd by the wheel through the tor- 
turer's hour, 
And girt thy soul with a martyr's power 

Till the conflict hath been won. 

'No— thou art the victor. Death ! 
Thou comest — and where is that which spoke 
From the depths of the eye, when the bright soul 
woke! 

— Gone with the flitting breath ! 

Thou comest — and what is left 
Of all that loved us, to say if aught 
Yet loves, yet answers the burning thought 

Of the spirit lorn and reft 7 

Silence is where thou art i 
Silently thou must kindred meet ; 
No glance to cheer, and no voice to greet ; 

No bounding of heart to heart ! 

Boast not of thy victory. Death ! 
It is but as the cloud's o'er the sunbeam's power — 
It is but as the winter's o'er leaf and flower, 

That slumber, the snow beneath. 

It is but as a tyrant's reign 
O'er the look and the voice, which he bids be still, 
— But the sleepless thought and the fiery will 

Ai'e not for him to chain. 

They shall soar his might above ! 
And so with the reed whence affection springs, 
Though buried, it is not of mortal things — ' 

Thou art the victor, Love ! 



THE TOMBS OF PLAT^A 

From a Painting by Williams. 



And there they sleep !— the men who stood 
In arms before th' exulting sun, 
And bathed their spears in Persian blood. 
And taught the earth how freedom might be won. 

They sleep!— th' Olympic wreaths are dead, 
Th' Athenian lyres are hush'd and gone; 
The Dorian voice of song is fled — 
—Slumber, ye mighty! slumber deeply on I 

They sleep, and seems not all around 
As hallow'd unto glory's tomb? 
Silence is on the battle ground. 
The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom. 

And stars are watching on their height. 
But dimly seen through mist and cloud. 
And still and solemn is the light 
Which folds the plain, as with a limmering 
shroud. 

And thou, pale night-queen ! here thy beams 
Are not as those the shepherd loves. 
Nor look they down on shining streams, 
By Naiads haunted, in their laurel groves : 

Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep. 
In shadowy quiet, 'midst its vines ; 
No temple gleaming from the steep, 
'Midst the gray olives, or the mountain pines : 

But o'er a dim and boundless waste. 
Thy rays, e'en like a tomb-lamp's, brood, 
Where man's departed steps are traced 
But by his dust, amidst the solitude. 

And be it thus 1 — What slave shall tread 
O'er freedom's ancient battle-plains? 
Let deserts wrap the glorious dead. 
When their bright land sits weeping o'er her 
chains : 

Here, where the Persian clarion rung, 
And where the Spartan sword flash'd high. 
And where the Pisan strains were sung 
From year to year swell'd on by liberty ! 

Here should no voice, no sound, be heard. 
Until the bonds of Greece be riven. 
Save of the leader's charging word. 
Or the shrill trumpet, pealing up through heaven! 

Rest in your silent homes, ye brave ! 
No vines festoon your lonely tree !* 
No harvest o'er your war-field wave. 
Till rushing winds proclaim — the land is free ! 



THE MEETING OF THE BROTHERS.t 



" His early days 

Were with him in his heart. 



Wordsworth- 



The voices of two forest boys. 

In years when hearts entwine. 
Had fill'd with childhood's merry noise 

A valley of the Rhine. 
To rock and stream that sound was known, 
Gladsome as hunter's bugle tone. 

The sunny laughter of their eyes 

There had each vineyard seen ; 
Up every cliff whence eagles rise, 

Their bounding step had been ; 
Ay ! their bright youth a glory threw 
O'er the wild place wherein they grew. 

*A singletree appears in Mr. Williams's impressive picture. 
t For the tale on which this httte poem is founded, see " L'Her- 
mite en Italic." 



352 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



But this, as day-spring's flush, was brief 

As early bloom or dew ; 
Alas ! 't is but the wither'd leaf 

That wears th' enduring hue; 
Those rocks along the Rhine's fair shore, 
Might girdle in tlieir world no more. 

For now on manhood's verge they stood, 

And heard life's thrilling call. 
As if a silver clarion woo'd 

To some high festival : 
And parted as young brothers part, 
With love in each unsullied heart. 

They parted — soon the paths divide 

Wherein our steps were one, 
Like river-branches, far and wide 

Dissevering as they run. 
And making strangers in their course 
Of waves that had the same bright source. 

Met they no more? — once more they met. 
Those" kindred hearts and true ! 

'T was on a field of death, where yet 
The battle-thunders flew. 

Though the fierce day was well-nigh past, 

And the red sunset smiled its last. 

But as the combat closed, they found 

For tender thoughts a space. 
And e'en upon that bloody ground 

Room for one bright embrace. 
And pour'd forth on eaclT other's neck 
Such tears as warriors need not check. 

The mists o'er boyhood's memory spread 

All melted with those tears; 
The faces of the holy dead 

Rose as in vanish'd years ; 
The Rhine, the Rhine, the ever blest, 
Lifted its voice in each full breast; 

Oh ! was it then a time to die ! 

It was ! — that not in vain 
The soul of childhood's purity 

And peace might turn again, 
A ball swept forth— 'twas guided well — 
Heart unto heart those brothers fell. 

Happy, yes, happy thus to go 1 

Bearing from earth away 
Affections, gifted ne'er to know 

A shadow — a decay, 
A passing touch of change or chill, 
A breath of aught whose breath can kill. 

And they, between whose sever'd souls, 

Once in close union tied, 
A gulf is set, a current rolls 

For ever to divide, 
Well may they envy such a lot, 
Whose hearts yearn on— but mingle not. 



THE VIEW FROM CASTRI. 

From a Painting by Williams. 



There have been bright and glorious pageants 

here, 
Where now gray stones and moss-grown columns 

lie; 
There have been words, which earth grew pale 

to hear, 
Breathed from the cavern's misty chambers 

nigh : 
There have been voices, through the sunny sky. 
And the pine-woods, their choral hymn-notes 

sending, 
And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody. 
With incense-clouds around the temple blend- 
ing. 
And throngs, with laurel-boughs, before the altar 

bending. 



There have been treasures of the seas and isles 
Brought to the day-god's now forsaken throne : 
Thunders have peal'd along the rock-defiles, 
When the far-echoing battle-horn made known 
That foes were on their way ! — the deep wind's 

moan 
Hath chill'd the invader's heart with secret fear, 
And from the Sibyl-grottoes, wild and lone. 
Storms have gone forth, which, in their fierce 

career. 
From his bold hand have struck the baruier and 

the spear. 

The shrine hath sunk !— but thou unchanged art 

there ! 
Mount of the voice and vision, robed with 

dreams ! 
Unchanged, and rushing through the radiant 

air, 
With thy dark-waving pines, and flashing 

streams, 
And all thy founts of song ! their bright course 

teems 
With inspiration yet ; and each dim haze, 
Or golden cloud which floats around thee, seems 
As with its mantle, veiling from our gaze 
The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder days ! 

Away, vain phantasies ! — doth less of power 
Dwell round thy summit, or thy cliffs invest. 
Though in deep stillness now, the ruin's flower 
Wave o'er the pillars mouldering on thy breast? 
— Lift through the free blue heavens thine ar- 
rowy crest ! 
Let the great rocks their solitude regain ! 
No Delphian lyres now break thy noontide rest 
With their full chords :— but silent be the strain ! 
Thou hast a mightier voice to speak th' Eternal's 
reign 1 



THE FESTAL HOUR. 



When are the lessons given 
That shake the startled earth?— When wakes the 

foe. 
While the friend sleeps !— When falls the traitor's 
blow ? 
When are proud sceptres riven, 
High hopes o'erthiown ! — It is, when lands rejoice, 
When cities blaze, and lift th' exulting voice. 
And wave their banners to the kindling heaven! 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 
When mirth o'erflows, then tremble !— 'T was a 

night 
Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light, 

When through the regal bower 
The trumpet peal'd ere yet the song was done. 
And there were shrieks in golden Babylon, 
And trampling armies ruthless in their power. 

The marble shrines were crown 'd : 
Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky. 
And Dorian reeds, made summer-melody. 

And censers waved around ; 
And lyres were strung, and bright libations pour'd. 
When through the streets, flash'd out the avenging 

sword. 
Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound !* 

Through Rome a triumph pass'd. 
Rich in her sun-god's mantling beams went by 
That long array "of glorious pageantry, 

With shout and trumpet-blast. 
An empire's gems their starry splendour shed 
O'er the proud march ; a king in chains was led; 
A stately victor, crown'd and robed, came last.f 

*The sword of Harmodius. 

tPaulus iEmilius, one of whose sons died a few days before, and 
another shortly after, his triumph on the conquest of Macedon, 
when Ferseus,"king of that country, was led in chains. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



353 



And many a Dryad's bower 
Had lent the laurels, which, in waving play, 
Stirr'd the warm air, and glisten'd round his way. 

As a quick-ttashinn; shower. 
— O'er his own porch, meantime the cypress hung. 
Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung — 
Woe for the dead !— the father's broken flower ! 

A sound of lyre and song, 
In the still night went floating o'er the Nile, 
Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile. 

Swept with that voice along; 
And lamps were shining o'er the red wine's foam, 
Where a chief revell'd in a monarch's dome. 
And fresh rose-garlands deck'd a glittering throng. 

'Twas Antony that bade 
The joyous chords ring out ! — but strains arose 
Of wilder omen at the banquet's close 1 

Sounds by no mortal made* 
Shook Alexandria through her streets that night. 
And pass'd — and with another sunset's light. 
The kingly Roman on his bier was laid. 

Bright 'midst its vineyards lay 
The fair Campanian city.t with its towers 
And temples gleaming through dark olive-bowers. 

Clear in the gofden day ; 
Joy was around it as the glowing sky. 
And crowds had fill'd its halls of revelry, 
And all the sunny air was music's way. 

A cloud came o'er the face 
Of Italy's rich heaven ! — its crystal blue 
Was changed and deepen'd to a wrathful hue 

Of night, o'ershadowing space. 
As with the wings of death ! — in all his power 
Vesuvius woke, and hurl'd the burning shower. 
And who could tell the buried city's place ? 

Such things have been of yore, 
In the gay regions where the citrons blow, 
And purple summers all their sleepy glow 

On the grape-clusters pour ; 
And where the palms to spicy winds are waving. 
Along clear seas of melted sapphire, laving, 
As with a flood of light, their southern shore. 

Turn we to other climes ! 
Far in the Druid-Isle a feast was spread, 
'Midst the rock-altars of the warrior-dead, | 

And ancient battle rhymes 
Were chanted to the harp ; and yellow mead 
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed. 
And lofty songs of Britain's elder time. 

But ere the giant-fane 
Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even, 
Hush'd were the bards, and, in the face of Heaven, 

O'er that old burial-plain 
Flash'd the keen Saxon dagger! — Blood was 

streaming. 
Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming, 
And Britain's hearths were heaped that night in 
vain. 

For they return'd no more ! 
Tliey that went forth at morn, with reckless heart, 
In that fierce banquet's mirth to bear their part ; 

And, on the rushy floor. 
And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls. 
The high wood-fires vi'ere blazing in their halls ; 
But not for them — they slept — their feast was 
o'er! 



* See the description p:iven by Plutarch, in his life of Antony, of 
the supernatural sounds heard in the streets of Alexandria, the night 
before Antony's death. 

tHerculaneum, of which it is related, that all the inhabitants 
■were assembled in the theatres, when the shower of ashes, which 
covered the city, descended. 

tStonehenge, said by some traditions to have been erected to the 
memory of Ambrosius, an early British king ; and by others men- 
tioned as a monumental record of the massacre of British chiefs 
bere alluded to. 

45 



Fear ye the festal hour ! 
Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o'erflows ! 
Tame down the swelling heart!— the bridal rose. 

And the rich myrtle's flower 
Have veil'd the sword I— Red wines have sparkled 

fast 
From venom'd goblets, and soft breezes pass'd. 
With fatal perfume, through the revel's bower. 

Twine the young glowing wreath ! 
But pour not all your spirit in the song, 
Which through the sky's deep azure floats along. 

Like summer's quickening breath I 
The ground is hollow in the path of mirth. 
Oh ! far too daring seems the joy of earth. 
So darkly press'd and girdled in by death ! 



THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN. 



In the year 1315, Switzerland was invaded by Duko 
Leopold of Austria, with a formidable army. It is 
well attested, that this prince repeatedly declared he 
'would trample the audacious rustics under his feet;' 
and that he had procured a large stock of cordage, for 
the purpose of binding their chiefs, and putting them to 
death. 

"The 15th October, 1315, dawned. The sun darled 
its first rays on the shields and armour of the advancing 
host; and this being the first army ever known to have 
attempted the frontiers of the cantons, the Swiss viewed 
its long line with various emotions. Monfort de Tett- 
nang led the cavalry into the narrow pass, and soon 
filled the whole space between the mountain (Mount 
Battel) and the lake. The fifty men on the eminence 
(above Morgarten) raised a sudden shout, and rolled 
down heaps of rocks and stones among the crowded 
ranks. The confederates on the mountain, perceiving 
the impression made by this attack, rushed down in 
close array, and fell upon the flank of the disordered 
column. With massy clubs they dashed in pieces the 
armour of the enemy, and dealt their blows and thrusts 
with long pikes. The narrowness of the defile admitted 
of no evolutions, and a slight frost having injured the 
road, the horses were impeded in all their motions ; 
many leaped into the lake ; all were startled ; and at last 
the whole column gave way, and fell suddenly back on 
the infantry ; and these last, as the nature of the country 
did not allow them to open their files, were run over by 
the fugitives, and many of them trampled to death. A 
general rout ensued, and Duke Leopold was, with much 
difficulty, rescued by a peasant, who led him to Win- 
terthur, where the historian of the times saw him arrive 
in the evening, pale, sullen, and dismayed." — Planta's 
History of the Helvetic Confederacy. 



The wine-month* shone in its golden prime. 

And the red grapes clustering hung. 
But a deeper sound through the Switzer's clime, 
Tlian the vintage music, rung. 

A sound, through vaulted cave, 
A sound, through echoing glen. 
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave ; 
— 'Twas the tread of steel-girt men. 

And a trumpet, pealing wild and far, 

'Midst the ancient rocks was blown. 
Till the Alps replied to that voice of war, 
With a thousand of their own. 
And through the forest glooms 
Flash'd helmets to the day. 
And the winds were tossing knightly plumes. 
Like the larch-boughs in their play. 

* Winc-mmitli^ the German name for October. 



354 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



In Hasli's* wilds there was gleaming steel, 

As the host of the Austrian pass'd ; 
And the Schreckhorn'sf rocks, with a savage peal, 
Made mirtli of his clarion's blast. 
Up 'midst the EighiJ snows 
The stormy march was heard. 
With the charger's tramp, whence fire-sparks rose. 
And the leader's gathering word. 

But a band, the noblest band of all. 

Through the rude Morgarten strait. 
With blazon'd streamers and lances tall. 
Moved onwards, in princely state. 
They came with heavy chains 
For the race despised so long — 
— But amidst his Alp-domains, 

The herdsman's arm is strong ! 

The sun was reddening the clouds of morn 

When they enter'd the rock-defile. 
And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn 
Their bugles rung the while. 
But on the misty height. 
Where the mountain-people stood, 
There was stillness, as of night, 
When storms at distance brood. 

There was stillness, as of deep dead night. 

And a pause — but not of fear. 
While the Svvitzers gazed on the gathering might 
Of the hostile shield and spear. 

On wound those columns bright 
Between the lake and wood. 
But they look'd not to the height 

Where the mountain-people stood. 

The pass was flll'd with their serried power. 

All helm'd and niail-array'd, 
And their steps had sounds like a thunder-shower 
In the rustling forest-shade. 

There were prince and crested knight, 
Hemm'd in by clifli" and flood. 
When a shout arose from the misty height. 
Where the mountain-people stood. 

And the mighty rocks came bounding down. 

Their startled foes among. 
With a joyous whirl from fhe summit thrown — 
— Oh ! tiie herdsman's arm is strong ! 
They came, like lauwine§ hurl'd 
From Alp to Alp in play. 
When the echoes shout through the snowy 
world. 
And the pines are borne away. 

The fir-woods crash'd on the mountain-side, 

And the Switzers rusli'd from high. 
With a sudden charge on the flower and pride 
Of the Austrian chivalry : 
Like hunters of the deer. 
They storm'd the narrow dell. 
And the first in the shock, with Uri's spear, 
Was the arm of William Tell.ji 

There was tumult in the crowded strait. 

And a cry of wild dismay, 
And many a warrior met his fate 
From a peasant's hand that day! 
And the empire's banner then. 
From its place of waving free. 
Went down before the shepherd-men. 
The men of the Forest-sea.TT 

With their pikes and massy clubs they brake 

The cuirass and the shield. 
And the war-horse dash'd to the reddening lake. 

From the reapers of the field ! 

■* Hasli, a wild district in the canton of Berne. 

t Schreckhorn, tht peak of terroi; a mountain in the canton of 
Berne. 

i Rigbi, a mountain in the canton of Schwy(z. 

§ Lauwine) llie Swiss name for avalanche. 

II William Tell's name is particularly mentioned amongst the 
confederates at Morgarten. 

X\ Fnrest-sca, the lake of the four cantons is also 6o called. 



The field— but not of sheaves — 
Proud crests and pennons lay 
Strewn o'er it thick as the birch-wood leaves 
In the autumn-tempest's way. 

Oh ! the sun in heaven fierce havoc view'd. 

When the Austrian turn'd to fly. 
And the brave, in the trampling multitude, 
Had a fearful death to die ! 
And the leader of the war 
At eve unhelm'd was seen, 
With a hurrying step on the wilds afar, 
And a pale and troubled mien. 

But the sons of the land which the freeman tills, 

Went back from the battle-toil. 
To their cabin homes 'midst the deep green hills, 
All burden'd with royal spoil. 

There were songs and festal fires 
On the soaring Alps that night. 
When children sprung to greet their sires, 
From the wild Morgarten fight. 



CHORUS. 

Translated from Manzoni's " Conte di Carmagnola." 



Hark ! from the right bursts forth a trumpet's 

sound ! 
A loud shrill trumpet from the left replies ! 
On every side, hoarse echoes from the ground. 
To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors rise. 
Hollow and deep : — and banners all around. 
Meet hostile banners waving through the skies. 
Here steel-clad bands in marshall'd order shine, 
And there a host confronts their glittering line. 

Lo half the field already from the sight 
Hath vanish'd, hid by closing groups of foes ! 
Swords crossing swords, flash lightning o'er the 

fight, 
And the strife deepens, and the life-blood flows! 
— Oh ! who are these ? what stranger in his might 
Comes bursting on the lovely land's repose 7 
What patriot hearts have nobly vow'd to save 
Their native soil, and make its dust their grave 7 

One race, alas I these foes, one kindred race, 
Were born and rear'd the same bright scenes among! 
The stranger calls them brothers— and each face 
That brotherhood reveals ; one common tongue 
Dwells on their lips ;— the earth, on which ye trace 
Their heart's blood, is the soil from whence they 

sprung. 
One mother gave them birth — this chosen land. 
Girdled with Alps and seas, by Nature's guardian 

hand. 

Oh, grief and horror ! — Who the first could dare 
Against a brother's breast the sword to wield? 
What cause unhailow'd and accursed, declare ! 
Hnth bathed with carnage this ignoble field? 
— Think'st thou they know?— they but inflict and 

share 
Misery and death, the motive unreveal'd ! 
Sold to a leader, sold himself to die. 
With him they strive, they fall — and ask not why. 

But are there none who love them?— Have they 

none, 
No wives, no mothers, who might rush between. 
And win with tears the husband and the son, 
Back to their homes from this polluted scene? 
And they, whose hearts when life's brigiit day is 

done. 
Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene. 
Thoughts of the tomb ; why cannot they assuage 
The storms of passion with the voice of age ? 

Ask not I the peasant at his cabin door 
Sits, calmly pointing to the distant cloud 
Which skirts th' horizon, menacing to pour 
Destruction down o'er fields he hath not plough'd. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



355 



Thus, where no echo of the battle's roar 
Is heard afar, e'en thus the reckless crowd 
In tranquil safety number o'er the slain. 
Or tell of cities burning on the plain. 

There may'st thou mark the boy, with earnest 

gaze, 
Fix'd on his mother's lips intent to know. 
By names of insult, those, whom future days 
Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest foe ! 
There proudly many a glittering dame displays 
Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow, 
By husbands, lovers, home in triumph borne. 
From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn. 

Woe to the victors and the vanquish'd ! Woe ! 
The earth is heap'd, is loaded with the slain, 
Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow, 
A sea of blood is swelling o'er the plain ! 
But from the embattled front, already, lo I 
A band recedes— it flies — all hope is vain. 
And venal hearts, despairing of the strife, 
Wake to the love, the clinging love of life. 

As the light grain disperses in the air. 
Borne from the winnowing by the gales around, 
Thus fly the vanquish'd, in their wild despair. 
Chased — sever'd — scatter'd — o'er the ample ground. 
But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there. 
Burst on their flight— and hark ! the deepening 

sound 
Of fierce pursuit !— still nearer and more near. 
The rush of war-steeds trampling in the rear 1 

The day is won ; — they fall— disarm'd they yield. 
Low at the conqueror's feet all suppliant lying ! 
'Midst shouts of victory pealing o'er the field, 
Oh ! who may hear the murmurs of the dying? 
— Haste ! let the tale of triumph be reveal'd ! 
E'en now the courier to his steed is flying ; 
He spurs— he speeds— with tidings of the day. 
To rouse up cities in his lightning way. 

Why pour ye thus from your deserted homes, 
Oh, eager multitudes ! around him pressing? 
Each hurrying where his breathless courser foams. 
Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confessing I 
Know ye not whence tli' ill-omen'd herald comes. 
And dare ye dream he comes with words of bless- 
ing? 
— Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold — 
Be ye content ! the glorious tale is told. 

I hear the voice of joy, th' exulting cry ! 

They deck the shrine, they swell the choral 

strains ; 
E'en now the homicides assail the sky 
With paeans, which indignant Heaven disdains! 
But, from the soaring Alps, the stranger's eye 
Looks watchful down on our ensanguined plains. 
And with the cruel rapture of a foe. 
Numbers the mighty, stretch'd in death below. 

Haste ! form your lines again, ye brave and true ! 
Haste, haste! your triumphs and your joys sus- 
pending ! 
Th' invader comes ; your banners raise anew. 
Rush to the strife, your country's cause defending! 
Victors! why pause ye? — Are ye weak and few ? 
Ay, such he deem'd you ! and for this descending. 
He waits you on the field ye know too vs'ell. 
The same red war-field where your brethren fell. 

Oh! thou devoted land ! that canst not rear 
In peace thine offspring; thou, the lost and won, 
The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear 
Too narrow still for each contending son ; 
Receive the stranger, in his fierce career. 
Parting thy spoils ! — thy chastening is begun ! 
And, wresting from thy chiefs the guardian sword. 
Foes whom thou ne'er hadst wrong'd, sit proudly 
at thy board. 

Are these infatuate too ? Oh ! who hath known 
A people e'er by guilt's vain triumph blest ? 
The wrong'd, the vanquish'd, suffer not alone. 
Brief is the joy that swells th' oppressor's breast. 



What though not yet his day of pride be flown. 
Though yet Heaven's vengeance spare his tower- 
ing crest. 
Well hath it mark'd him— and ordain'd the hour 
When his last sigh shall own its mightier power. 

Are we not creatures of one hand divine? 
Form'd in one mould, to one redemption born? 
Kindred alike, where'er our skies may shine. 
Where'er our sight first drank the vital morn ? 
Brothers ! one bond around our souls should twine, 
And woe to him by whom that bond is torn ! 
Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to earth, 
Who bears down spirits of immortal birth ! 



THE MEETING OF THE BARDS. 

WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING 
OF WELSH BARDS, 

Held in London, May 22d, 1822. 



The Gorseddau, or meetings of the British bards, 
were anciently ordained to be held in the open air, on 
some conspicuous situation, whilst the sun was above 
the horizon; or, according to the expression employed 
on these occasions, "in the face of the sun, and in the 
eye of light." The places set apart for this purpose 
were marked out by a circle of stones, called the circle 
of federation. The presiding bard stood on a large 
stone (Maen Gorsedd, or the stone of assembly,) in the 
centre. The sheathing of a sword upon this stone was 
the ceremony which announced the opening of a (ror- 
sedd, or meeting. The bards always stood in their uni- 
coloured robes, with their heads and feet uncovered 
within the circle of federation. — See Oioen's Transla- 
tion of the Heroic Elegies of Lhjwarc Hen. 



Where met our bards of old ?— the glorious 

throng. 
They of the mountain and the battle song ? 
They met— oh ! not in kingly hall or bower. 
But where wild nature girt herself with power: 
They met— where streams flash'd bright from rocky 

caves. 
They met — where woods made moan o'er warrior's 

graves. 
And where the torrent's rainbow spray was cast. 
And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast. 
And 'midst th' eternal cliflis, whose strength de- 
fied 
The crested Roman in his hour of pride ; 
And where the Carnedd,* on its lonely hill, 
Bore silent record of the mighty still ; 
And where the Druid's ancient Cromlechffrown'd, 
And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round. 
There throng'd th' inspired of yore !— on plain or 

height. 
In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light. 
And, baring unto heaven each noble head. 
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread. 

Well might their lays be lofty !— soaring thought 
From Nature's presence tenfold grandeur caught: 
Well might bold Freedom's soul pervade the 

strains. 
Which startled eagles from their lone domains. 
And, like a breeze, in chainless triumph, went 
Up through the blue resounding firmament ! 

Whence came the echoes to those numbers high? 
— 'T was from the battle-fields of days gone by ! 
And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest 
With their good swords, upon the mountain's 
breast ; 

* Carnedd, a stone-barroiv, or cairn. 

t Crimtlech, a I')ruidical monument, or altar. The word meanB a 
stone of covenant. 



356 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



And from the watch-towers on the heights of 

snow, 
Sever'd by cloud and storm, from all below ; 
And the turf-mounds,* once girt by ruddy spears, 
And the rock-altars of departed years. 

Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent's roar, 

The winds a thousand wild responses bore ; 

And the green land, whose every vale and glen 

Doth shrine the memory of heroic men, 

On all her hills awakening to rejoice, 

Sent forth proud answers to her children's voice. 

For us, not ours the festival to hold, 

'Midst the stone-circles, hallow'd thus of old ; 

Not where great Nature's majesty and might 

First broke, all-glorious, on our infant sight, 

Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and 

brave, 
Not by the mountain-Ilyn.f the ocean wave, 
In these late days we meet !— dark Mona's shore, 
Eryri'sl clitfs resound with harps no more ! 
But, as the stream (though time or art may turn 
The current, bursting from its cavern'd urn, 
To bathe soft vales of pastures and of flowers. 
From Alpine glens, or ancient forest-bowers,) 
Alike, in rushing strength or sunny sleep, 
Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep ; 
Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm 

and free. 
Land of the bard ! our spirit flies to thee ! 
To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts be- 
long. 
Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song ! 
Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less, 
To the green memory of thy loveliness. 
Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal'd from every 

height. 
In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light ! 



THE SONG OF THE GIFTED. 



O, YE HOURS! 



O YE hours, ye sunny hours ! 

Floating lightly by, 
Are ye come with birds and flowers. 

Odours and blue sky ? 

Yes, we come, again we come. 
Through the wood-paths free ; 

Bringing many a wanderer home, 
With the bird and bee. 

O ye hours, ye sunny hours ! 

Are ye wafting song ? 
Doth mild music stream in showers 
All the groves among? 

Yes, the nightingale is there, 
While the starlight reigns, 

Making young leaves and sweet air 
Tremble with her strains. 

O ye hours, ye sunny hours ! 

In your silent flow. 
Ye are mighty, mighty powers ! 

Bring ye bliss or woe ? 

Ask not this— oh ! seek not this ! 

Yield your hearts awhile 
To the soft wind's balmy kiss, 

And the heaven's bright smile ! 

Throw not shades of anxious thought 

O'er the glowing flowers ! 
We are come with sunshine fraught, 

Question not the hours ! 



1 Llyrif a lake or pool, 
t Eryri, Snowdon. 



That voice remeasuret 
"Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures, 
The things of nature utter: birds or trees, 
Or where the tall grass 'mid the heath-plant waves, 
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze," 

I HEARD a song upon the wandering wind, 

A song of many tones — though one full soul 

Breathed through them all imploringly ; and made 

All nature as they pass'd, all quivering leaves 

And low responsive reeds and waters thrill, 

As with the consciousness of human prayer. 

— At times the passion-kindled melody 

Might seem to gush from Sappho's fervent heart. 

Over the wild sea-wave ; — at times the strain 

Flow'd with more plaintive sweetness, as if born 

Of Petrarch's voice, beside the lone Vaucluse ; 

And sometimes, with its melancholy swell, 

A graver sound was mingled, a deep note 

Of Tasso's holy lyre ; yet still the tones 

Were of a suppliant ; — "-Leave me notP' was still 

The burden of their music; and I knew 

The lay which genius, in its loneliness. 

Its own still world amidst th' o'erpeopled world. 

Hath ever breathed to Love. 

They crown me with the glistening crown, 

Borne from a deathless tree; 
I hear the pealing music of renown — 

Love ! forsake me not! 
Mine were a lone dark lot. 

Bereft of thee ! 

They tell me that my soul can throw 
A glory o'er the earth ! 
From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow! 
Shed by thy gentle eyes 
It gives to flower and skies, 
A bright, new birth ! 
Thence gleams the path of morning. 
Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone ! 
Thence to its heart of hearts, the rose is 
burning 
With lustre not its own ! 
Thence every wood-recess 
Is fiU'd with loveliness. 
Each bower, to ringdoves, and dim violets 
known. 

1 see all beauty by thy ray 
That streameth from thy smile ; 

Oh ! bear it, bear it not away, 

Can that sweet light beguile ? 
Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems. 
To linger long by earthly streams ; 
I clasp it with th' alloy 
Of fear 'midst quivering joy 
Yet must I perish if the gift depart — 
Leave me not, Love ! to mine own beating 
heart ! 

The music from my lyre 
With thy swift step would flee ; 
The world's cold breath would quench the starry 
fire 
In my deep soul — a temple fill'd with thee I 
Seal'd would the fountains lie. 
The waves of harmony. 
Which thou alone canst free ? 

Like a shrine 'midst rocks forsaken, 

Whence the oracle hath fled ; 
Like a harp which none might waken 

But a mighty master dead ; 
Like the vase of perfume scatter'd 

Such would my spirit be ; 
So mute, so void, so shatter'd. 

Bereft of thee ! 

Leave me not. Love ! or if this earth 

Yield not for thee a home. 
If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth 

Send thee a silvery voice that whispers — 
"Come J" 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



357 



Then, with the glory from the rose, 
With the sparkle from the stream. 
With the light thy rainbow-presence throws 
Over the poet's dream ; 
With all th' Elysian hues 
Thy pathway that suffuse, 
With joy, witli music, from the fading grove, 
Take me, too, heavenward, on tliy wing, sweet 
Love! 



MARGUERITE OF FRANCE* 



Thou falcon-hearted dove ! 

CoUridse. 



The Moslem spears were gleaming 

Round Damietta's towers. 
Though a Christian banner from her wall, 

Waved free its Lily-ilowers. 
Ay, proudly did the banner wave, 

As Q,ueen of Earth and Air; 
But faint hearts throbb'd beneath its folds, 

In anguish and despair. 

Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon, 

Their kingly chieftain lay. 
And low on many an Eastern field 

Their knighthood's best array. 
'Twas mournful, when at feasts they met, 

The wine-cup round to send, 
For each that touch'd it silently, 

Then miss'd a gallant friend ! 

And mournful was their vigil 

On the beleaguer'd wall, 
And dark their slumber, dark with dreams 

Of slow defeat and fall. 
Yet a few hearts of Chivalry 

Rose high to breast the storm. 
And one— of all the loftiest there— 

Thrill'd in a woman's form. 

A woman, meekly bending 

O'er the slumber of her child, 
With her soft sad eyes of weeping love, 

As the Virgin Mother's mild. 
Oh ! roughly cradled was thy Babe, 

'Midst the clash of spear and lance. 
And a strange, wild bower was thine, yo 
Queen : 

Fair Marguerite of France ! 

A dark and vaulted chamber, 

Like a scene for wizard-spell. 
Deep in the Saracenic gloom 

Of the warrior citadel ; 
And there 'midst arms the couch was spread. 

And with banners curtain'd o'er, 
For the Daughter of the Minstrel-land, 

The gay Provencal shore ! 

For the bright dueen of St. Louis, 

The star of court and hall ! — 
But the deep strength of the gentle heart. 

Wakes to the tempest's call ! 
Her Lord was in the Paynim's hold, 

His soul with grief oppress'd. 
Yet calmly lay the Desolate, 

With her young babe on her breast ! 



* Queen of St. Louis. Whilst besieged by the Turks in Damietia, 
during the captivity of the liing, her husband, she there gave birth 
to a son, whom she named Tristan, in commemoration of her mis- 
fortunes. Information being conveyed to her that the knights in- 
trusted with the defence of the city had resolved on capitulation, she 
had them summoned to her apartment, and, by her heroic words, so 
wrought upon their spirits, that they vowed to defend her and the 
Cross to the last extremity. 



There were voices in the city. 

Voices of wrath and fear — 
" The walls grow weak, the strife is vain. 

We will not perish here! 
Yield ! yield ! and let the crescent gleam 

O'er tower and bastion high! 
Our distant homes are beautiful — 

We stay not here to die !" 

They bore those fearful tidings 

To the sad Q.ueen where she lay — 
They told a tale of wavering hearts, 

Of treason and dismay : 
The blood rush'd through her pearly cheek. 

The sparkle to her eye — 
"Now call me hither those recreant knights, 

From the bands of Italy !"* 

Then through the vaulted chambers 

Stern iron footsteps rang ; 
And heavily the sounding floor 

Gave back the sabre's clang. 
They stood around her— steel-clad men, 

Moulded for storm and flght, 
But they quail'd before the loftier soul 

In that pale aspect bright. 

Yes— as before the Falcon shrinks 

The Bird of meaner wing. 
So shrank they from th' imperial glance 

Of Her— that fragile thing! 
And her flute-like voice rose clear and high. 

Through the din of arms around. 
Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul. 

As a silver clarion's sound. 

" The honour of the Lily 

Is in your hands to keep, 
And the Banner of the Cross, for Him 

Who died on Calvary's steep : 
And the city which for Christian prayer 

Hath heard the holy bell— 
And is it these your hearts would yield 

To the godless Infidel ? 

" Then bring me here a breastplate. 

And a helm, before ye fly. 
And I will gird my woman's form. 

And on the ramparts die ! 
And the Boy whom I have borne for woe, 

But never for disgrace. 
Shall go within mine arms to death 

Meet for his royal race. 

" Look on him as he slumbers 

In the shadow of the Lance '. 
Then go, and with the Cross forsake 

The princely Babe of France ! 
But tell your homes ye left one heart 

To perish undefiled ; 
A Woman and a Queen, to guard 

Her Honour and her Child !" 

Before her words they thrill'd, like leaves 

When winds are in the wood ; 
And a deepening murmur told of men 

Roused to a loftier moad. 
And her Babe awoke to flashing swords. 

Unsheathed in many a hand, 
As they gather'd round the helpless One, 

Again a noble band ! 

" We are thy warriors. Lady ! 

True to the Cross and tlieo ! 
The spirit of thy kindling words 

On every sword shall be ! 
Rest, with thy fair child on thy breast, 

Eest— we will guard thee well : 
St. Denis for the Lily-flower, 

And the Christian citadel !" 



« The proposal to capitulate is attributed by the French historian 
to the Knights of Pisa. 



358 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



THE FALLEN LIME-TREE. 



Oh, joy of the peasant ! O stately lime ! 
Tliou art fallen in thy golden honey-time. 
Thou whose wavy shadows, 

Long and long ago, 
Screen'd our gray forefathers 
From the noontide's glow; 
Thou, beneath whose branches, 

Touch'd with moonlight gleams, 
Lay our early poets 
Wrapt in fairy dreams. 
O tree of our fathers I O hallow'd tree ! 
A glory is gone from our home with thee. 

Where shall now the weary 

Rest through summer eves ? 
Or the bee find honey, 

As on thy sweet leaves ? 
Where shall now the ring-dove 

Build again her nest ? 
She so long the inmate 

Of thy fragrant breast? 
But the sons of the peasant have lost in thee 
Far more than the ring-dove, far more than the 

bee ! 

These may yet find coverts, 

Leafy and profound. 
Full of dewy dimness. 

Odour and soft sound : 
But the gentle memories 

Clinging all to thee. 
When shall they be gather'd 
Round another tree 7 
O pride of our fathers ; O, hallow'd tree ! 
The crown of the hamlet is fallen in thee ! 



THE FREED BIRD. 



Swifter far than summer's flight, 
Swifter far than youth's delight. 
Swifter far than happy night, 

Thou art come and gone ! 

As the earth when leaves are dead, 
.As the night when sleep is sped, 
As the heart when joy is fled, 

I am left here, alone ! 

Shdley. 



Retdrn, return, my Bird ! 

I have dress'd thy cage with flowers, 
'T is lovely as a violet bank 

In the heart of forest bowers. 

" I am free, I am free, I return no more ! 
The weary time of the cage is o'er! 
Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high, 
The sky is around me, the blue bright sky ! 

" The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear. 
With their glowing heath-tiowers and bounding 

deer — 
I see the vi'aves flash on the sunny shore — 
I am free, I am free— -I return no more !" 

Alas, alas, my Bird! 

Why seek'st thou to be free ? 
Wert thou not blest in thy little bower. 

When thy song breathed naught but glee ? 

" Did my song of summer breathe naught but 

glee? 
Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee ? 
— Oh ! hadst thou known its deep meaning well! 
It had tales of a burning heart to tell! 

" From a dream of the forest that music sprang, 
Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang ; 
And its dying fall, when it soothed thee best, 
Sigh'd, for wild flowers and a leafy nest." 



Was it with thee thus, my Bird? 

Yet thine eye flash'd clear and bright! 
I have seen the glance of sudden joy 

In its quick and dewy hght. 

" It flash'd with the fire of a tameless race. 
With the soul of the wild wood, my native place ! 
With the spirit that panted through heaven to 

soar — 
Woo me not back— I return no more ! 

"My home is high, amidst rocking trees. 
My kindred things are the star and breeze. 
And the fount uncheck'd in its lonely play. 
And the odours that wander afar, away !" 

Farewell, farewe'll, then, Bird! 

I have call'd on spirits gone. 
And it. may be they joy'd like thee to part, 

Like thee, that wert all my own ! 

" If they were captives, and pined like me, 
Though Love might guard them, they joy'd to be 

free! 
They sprang from the earth with a burst of power, 
To the strength of their wings, to their triumph's 

hour! 

" Call them not back when the chain is riven. 
When the way of the pinion is all through heaven ! 
Farewell !— With my song through the clouds I 

soar, 
I pierce the blue skies— I am Earth's no more !" 



THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT. 



"Who does not recollect the exultation of 'S^'aillant 
over a flower in the torrid wastes of Africa ? — The af- 
fecting mention of the influence of a flower upon the 
mind, by Mungo Park, in a time of suffering and de- 
spondency, in the heart of the same savage country, is 
familiar to every one." — HowiWs Book of the Seasons. 



Why art thou thus in thy beauty cast, 

O lonely, loneliest flovver ! 
Where the sound of song hath never pass'd 

From human hearth or bower ? 

I pity thee, for thy heart of love, 
For thy glowing heart, that fain 

Would breathe out joy with each wind to rove- 
In vain, lost thing ! in vain ! 

I pity thee for thy wasted bloom. 

For thy glory's fleeting hour. 
For the desert place, thy living tomb^ 

O lonely, loneliest flower ! 

I said — but a low voice made reply, 

" Lament not for the flower ! 
Though its blossoms all unmark'd must die. 

They have had a glorious dower. 

" Though it bloom afar from the minstrel's way, 

And the paths where lovers tread, 
Yet strength and hope, like an inborn day. 

By its odours hath been shed. 

" Yes ! dews more sweet than ever fell 

O'er island of the blest. 
Were shaken forth, from its perfumed bell. 

On a suftering human breast. 

" A wanderer came, as a stricken deer. 

O'er the waste of burning sand. 
He bore the wound of an Arab spear. 

He fled from a ruthless band. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



359 



" And dreams of home, in a troubled tide, 

Swept o'er liis darkening eye, 
As he lay down by the fountain side, 

In liis mute despair to die. 

" But his glance was caught by the desert's flower, 

The precious boon of lieaven ! 
And sudden hope, like a vernal shower, 

To his fainting heart was given. 

" For the bright flower spoke of One above ; 

Of the Presence, felt to brood. 
With a Spirit of pervading love. 

O'er the wildest solitude. 

" Oh ! the seed was thrown these wastes among. 

In a blest and gracious hour ! 
For the lorn one rose, in heart made strong, 

By the lonely, loneliest flower !" 



THE HUGUENOT'S FAREWELL. 



I STAND upon the threshold stone 

Of mine ancestral hall ; 
I hear ray native river moan ; 

I see the night o'er my old forests fall. 

I look round on the darkening vale, 

That saw my childhood's plays : 
The low wind in its rising wail 

Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days. 

But I must rule my swelling breath : 

A sign is in the sky ; 
Bright o'er yon gray rock's eagle nest 

Shines forth a warning star — it bids me fly. 

My father's sword is in my hand. 

His deep voice haunts mine ear ; 
He tells me of the noble band. 

Whose lives have left a brooding glory here. 

He bids their offspring guard from stain 

Their pure and lofty faith ; 
And yield up all things to maintain 

The cause, for v/hich they girt themselves to 
death. 

And I obey. — I leave their towers 

Unto the stranger's tread ; 
Unto the creeping grass and flowers ; 

Unto the fading pictures of the dead. 

I leave their shields to slow decay, 

Their banners to the dust; 
I go, and only hear away 

Their old majestic name, — a solemn trust ! 

I go up to the ancient hills. 

Where chains may never be, 
Where leap in joy the torrent rills. 

Where man may worship God, alone and free. 

There shall an altar and a camp 

Impregnably arise ; 
There shall he lit a quenchless lamp, 

To shine unwavering through the open skies. 

And song shall 'midst the rocks be heard. 

And fearless prayer ascend ; 
While thrilling to God's holy word. 

The mountain pines in adoration bend. 

And there the burning heart no more 

Its deep thought shall suppress, 
But the long-buried truth shall pour 

Free currents thence, amidst the wilderness. 



Then fare thee well, my mother's bower. 

Farewell, my father's hearth ; 
Perish, my home I where lawless power 

Hath rent the tie of love to native earth. 

Perish! let deathlike silence fall 

Upon the lone abode : 
Spread fast, dark ivy, spread thy pall : — 

I go up to the mountains with my God. 



THE WANDERER. 



From the German of Schmidt Von Lubeck.' 



I COME down from the hills alone. 
Mist wraps the vale, the billows moan ; 
I wander on in thoughtful care. 
Forever asking, sighing— Where? 

The sunshine round seems dim and cold, 
And flowers are pale, and life is old. 
And words fall soulless on my ear. 
Oh ! I am still a stranger here. 

Where art thou, land, sweet land, mine own ? 
Still sought for, longed for, never known ! 
The land, the land of hope, of light. 
Where glow my roses, freslily bright ; — 

And where my friends the green paths tread. 
And where in beauty rise my dead ; 
The land that speaks my native speech, 
The blessed land I may not reach ! 

I wander on in thoughtful care. 
For ever asking, sighing — Where? 
And spirit-sounds come answering this, 
•' There, where thou art not, there is bliss." 



THE SILENT MULTITUDE. 



For we are many in our Solitudes. 

Lament of Tasso. 

A MIGHTY and a mingled throng 

Were gather'd in one spot ; 
The Dwellers of a thousand Homes — 

Yet 'midst them Voice was not. 

The Soldier and his Chief were there — 

The Mother and her Child : 
The friends, the Sisters of one hearth — 

None spoke — none moved, none smiled. 

There lovers met, between whose lives 

Years had swept darkly by ; 
After that heart -sick hope deferr'd — 

They met — but silently. 

You might have heard the rustling leaf. 

The breeze's faintest sound. 
The shiver of an insect's wing 

On that thick-peopled ground. 

Your voice to whispers would have died, 

For the deep quiet's sake ; 
Your tread the softest moss have sought. 

Such stillness not to break. 

What held the countless Multitude 

Bound in that spell of peace ? 
How could the ever-sounding life 

Amid so many cease ? 

*See the original in the Dublin University Magazine for Feb- 
ni.-iry, 1S34.. 



360 



HEMANS' POEMS. 



Was it some pageant of the air — 

Some glory high above. 
That liuk'd and hush'd those human souls, 

In reverential love 7 

Or did some burdening passion's weight 
Hang on their indrawn breath? 

Awe — the pale awe that freezes words? 
Tear— the strong fear of Death ? 

A mightier thing— Death, Death himself 

Lay on each lonely heart ! 
Kindred were there— yet hermits all — 

Thousands— but each apart. 



WASHINGTON'S STATUE. 



Sent from England to America. 



Yes ! rear thy guardian Hero's form 
On thy proud soil, thou Western World ! 
A watcher through each sign of storm, 
O'er Freedom's flag unfurl'd. 

There, as before a shrine to bow. 
Bid thy true sons their cliildren lead; 
The language of that noble brow 

For all things good shall plead. 

The spirit rear'd in patriot fight, 

The Virtue born of Home and Hearth, 

There calmly throned, a holy light 

Shall pour o'er chainless earth. 

And let that work of England's hand, 
Sent through the blast and surge's roar. 
So girt with tranquil glory, stand 
For ages on thy shore ! 

Such through all time the greetings be. 
That with the Atlantic biilow sweep ! 
Telling the Mighty and the Free 
Of Brothers o'er the Deep! 



THE BROKEN LUTE. 

She dwelt in proud Venetian halls, 

'Midst forms that breathed from the pictured 

walls ; 
But in a glow of beauty like her own. 
There had no dream of the painter thrown. 
Lit from within was her noble brow. 
As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow ; 
Her young, clear cheek had a changeful hue. 
As if ye might see how the soul wrouglit through ; 
And every flash of her fervent eye 
Seem'd the bright wakening of Poesy. 

Even thus it was! — from her childhood's years, — 
A being of sudden smiles and tears, — 
Passionate visions, quick light and shade, — 
Such was that high-born Italian maid ! 
And the spirit of song in her bosom-cell, 
Dwelt as the odours in violets dwell, — 
Or as the sounds in Eolian strings, — 
Or in aspen-leaves the quiverings ; 
There, ever there, with the life enshrined, 
And waiting the call of the faintest wind. 

Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea, 

In the city's hour of moonlight glee, — 

Oft would that gift of the southern sky, 

O'erflovs' from her lips in melody ; — 

Oft amid festal halls it came. 

Like the springing forth of a sudden flame, — 

Till the dance was hush'd, and the silvery tone 

Of her inspiration was heard alone. 



And Fame went with her, the bright, the crown'd, 
And Music floated her steps around; 
And every lay of her soul was borne 
Through the sunny land, as on wings of morn. 

And was the daughter of Venice blest, 

With a power so deep in her youthful breast ? 

Could she be happy, o'er whose dark eye 

So many changes and dreams went by ? 

And in whose cheek the svv'ift crimson wrought. 

As if but born from the rush of thought ? 

— Yes I in the brightness of joy awhile 

She moved, as a bark in the sunbeam's smile ; 

For her spirit, as over her lyre's full chord, 

All, all on a happy love was pour'd! 

How loves a heart, whence the stream of song 
Flows like the life-blood, quick, bright, and 

strong ? 
How loves a heart which hath ever proved 
One breath of the world ? — Even so she loved ! 
Blest, though the lord of her soul afar. 
Was charging the foremost in Moslem war, — 
Bearing the flag of St. Mark's on high, 
As a ruling star in the Grecian sky. 
Proud music breathed in her song, when Fame 
Gave a tone more thrilling to his name ; 
And her trust in his love was a woman's faith — 
Perfect, and fearing no change but death. 

But the fields are won from the Ottoman host. 
In the land that quel I'd the Persian's boast ; 
And a thousand hearts in Venice burn. 
For the day of triumph and return ! 
—The day is come ! the flashing deep 
Foams where the galleys of victory sweep ; 
And the sceptred city of the wave. 
With her festal splendour, greets the brave; 
Cymbal and clarion, and voice, around. 
Make the air one stream of exulting sound. 
While the beautiful, with their sunny smiles, 
Look from each hall of the hundred isles. 

But happiest and brightest that day of all, 
Robed for her warrior's festival, 
Moving a queen 'midst the radiant throng. 
Was she, th' inspired one, the maid of song ! 
The lute he loved on her arm she bore. 
As she rush'd in her joy to the crowded shore ; 
With a hue on her cheek like the damask glow 
By the sunset given unto mountain snow, 
And her eye all fiU'd with the spirit's play. 
Like the flash of a gem to the changeful day. 
And her long hair waving in ringlets bright — 
So came that being of hope and light ! 

—One moment, Erminia! one moment more, 

And life, all the beauty of life, is o'er ! 

The bark of her lover hath touch'd the strand — 

Whom leads he forth with a gentle hand ? 

— A young, fair form, whose nymph-like grace 

Accorded well with the Grecian face. 

And the eye, in its clear soft darkness meek. 

And the lashes that droop'd o'er a pale rose 

cheek ; 
And he look'd on that beauty with tender pride— 
The warrior hath brought back an eastern bride ! 

But how stood she, the forsaken, there, 

Struck by the lightning of swift despair? 

Still, as amazed with grief, she stood. 

And her cheek to her heart sent back the blood. 

And there came from her quivering lip no word — 

Only the fall of her lute was heard. 

As it dropt from her hand at her rival's feet. 

Into fragments, whose dying thrill was sweet ! 

What more remaineth? Her day was done; 
Her fate and the Broken Lute's were one ! 
The light, the vision, the gift of power, 
Pass'd from her soul in that mortal hour. 
Like the rich sound from the shatter'd string. 
Whence the gush of sweetness no more might 

spring ! 
As an eagle struck in his upward flight. 
So was her hope from its radiant height. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



361 



And her song wont with it for ever more, 

A gladness taken from sea and sliore ! 

She had moved to the echoing sound of fame — 

Silently, silently, died her name ! 

Silently melted her life away. 

As ye have seen a young flower decay, 

Or a lamp that hath swiftly burn'd, expire. 

Or a bright stream shrink from the Summer's fire, 

Leaving its channel all dry and mute — 

Woe for the Broken Heart and Lute ! 



THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH. 



The beautiful constellalion of the Cross is seen only 
in the Southern Hemisphere. The following lines are 
supposed to be addressed to it by a Spanish Traveller 
in South America. 



In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread. 
Where savannahs, in boundless magnificence, 

spread ; 
And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on 

high. 
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky. 

The fern-tree waves o'er me, the fire-fly's red light 
With its quick-glancing splendour illumines the 

night. 
And I read in each tint of the skies and the earth. 
How distant my steps from the land of my birth. 

But to thee, as thy load-stars resplendently burn 
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I turn. 
Bright Cross of the South !— and beholding thee 

shine. 
Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and vine. 

Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main 
My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain, 
And planted their faith in the regions that see 
Its unperishing symbol emblazon'd in thee. 

How oft in their course o'er the ocean's unknown, 
Where all was mysterious and awful and lone, 
Hath their spirit been cheer'd by thy light, when 

the deep 
Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep ! 

As the vision that rose to the lord of the world,* 
When first his bright banner of faith was unfurl'd ; 
Even such to the heroes of Spain, when their 

prow 
Made the billows the path of their glory, wert 

thou! 

* Constantine. 



And to me as I traversed the world of tlie west. 
Through deserts of beauty in stillness that rest ; 
By forests and rivers untamed in their pride. 
Thy beams have a language, thy course is a 
guide. 

Shine on— my own land is a far distant spot, 
And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not. 
And the eyes that I love, though e'en now they 

may be 
O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on 

thee ! 

But thou, to my thoughts art a pure-blazing 

shrine, 
A fount of bright hopes, and of visions divine ; 
And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free. 
Soars high o'er the Andes to mingle with thee. 



SABBATH SONNET. 

How many blessed groups this hour are bending 
Through England's primrose meadow paths their 

way 
Toward spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms 

ascending. 
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallow'd 

day! 
The halls from old heroic ages gray 
Pour their fair children forth ; and hamlets low. 
With those thick orchard blooms the soft winds 

play, 
Send out their inmates in a happy flow. 
Like a free vernal stream. I may not tread 
With them those pathways,— to the feverish bed 
Of sickness bound ;— yet, oh my God I I bless 
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fiU'd 
My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd 
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness. 



THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS. 

Nobly thy song, O minstrel ! rush'd to meet 
Th' Eternal on the pathway of the blast. 
With darkness round him as a mantle cast, 
And cherubim to waft his flying seat. 
Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet. 
With trumpet voice thy spirit call'd aloud. 
And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat. 
And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud. 
But far more gloriously to earth made known 
By that high strain, than by the thunder's tone, 
Than flashing torrents, or the ocean's roll; 
Jehovah spoke through the inbreathing fire. 
Nature's vast realms for ever to inspire 
With the deep worship of a living souL 

Dublin, April, 1835- 



THE END. 



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